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Men  of  iron. 


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Books  b^  Ibowarb  p^lc 

Howard  Pyle's  Book  of  Pirates 

Men  of  Iron 

A  Modem  Aladdin 

Pepper  and  Salt 

The  Ruby  of  Kishmoor 

Stolen  Treasure 

The  Wonder  Clock 


flnen  of  Uron 


Henry  of  Lancaster,  who  in  1399,  as  Henry  IV,  became  EnglancVs 
King  in  the  stead  of  the  weak,  toicked,  and  treacherous  Richard  II. 


flQen 

of 

Uron 

BY 
HOWARD  PYLE 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 
THE  AUTHOR 


MaRPER  k  IROW,   JiuBLISHERS, 
NEW  YORK,  EVANSTON,  AND  LONDON 


PX 
7 


f?5 


e 


MEN  OF  IRON 

Copyright  1891  by  Harper  &:  Brothers 

Copyright  1919  by  Anne  Poole  Pyle 

Printed   in   the   United  States   of   America   for   Harper   &   Row,   Publishers, 

Incorporated,  49  East  33rd  Street,  New  York,  N.Y.  10016.  All  rights  reserved. 

Library  of  Congress  Catalog  Card  Number:  4-18936 


To  my  Friend  and  Critic 

J.  HENRY  HARPER 

is  inscribed  all  that  may 
he  of  worth  in  this  volume 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Henry    of   Lancaster,    who   in    1399,  as 

Henry  IV,  became  England's  King 

in  the  stead  of  the  weak,  wicked,  and 

treacherous  Richard  II. 
Myles,  as  in  a  dream,  kneeled  and  pre- 
sented the  letter. 
"When  thou  strikest  that  lower  cut  at  the 

legs,  recover  thyself  more  quickly." 
At  last  they  had  the  poor  boy  down. 
Myles  pushed  the  door  farther  open. 
They  bore  him  away  to  a  bench  at  the 

far  end  of  the  room. 
"But    tell    me,    Robin    Ingoldsby,    dost 

know  aught  more  of  this  matter?" 
"Belike  thou  sought  to  take   this  lad's 

life,"  said  Sir  James. 
Myles  entertains  the  Lady  Anne  and  the 

Lady  Alice  with  his  adventures. 
Myles    found    himself    standing    beside 

the  bed. 
The  Earl  of  Mackworth  received  King 

Henry  IV. 
Lord  George  led  him  to  where  the  King 

stood. 
"My  Lord,"  said  he,  "the  favor  was  given 

to  me  by  the  Lady  Alice." 
Prior  Edward  and  Myles  in  the  Priory 

Garden. 
The  Challenge. 
He  held  tightly  to  the  fallen  man's  horse. 


Frontispiece 
Facing  page     28 


50 
70 

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250 

267 
308 
322 


/Ihen  ot  Uton 


INTRODUCTION 


U. 


■HE  YEAR  1400  opened  with  more  than  usual 
peacefulness  in  England.  Only  a  few  months  be- 
fore, Richard  II — weak,  wicked,  and  treacherous 
— had  been  dethroned,  and  Henry  IV  declared 
King  in  his  stead.  But  it  was  only  a  seeming  peace- 
fulness,  lasting  but  for  a  little  while;  for  though 
King  Henry  proved  himself  a  just  and  a  merciful 
man — as  justice  and  mercy  went  with  the  men  of 
iron  of  those  days — and  though  he  did  not  care  to 
shed  blood  needlessly,  there  were  many  noble 
families  who  had  been  benefited  by  King  Richard 
during  his  reign,  and  who  had  lost  somewhat  of 
their  power  and  prestige  from  the  coming  in  of  the 
new  King. 

Among  these  were  a  number  of  great  lords — the 
Dukes    of    Albemarle,    Surrey,    and    Exeter,    the 


Marquis  of  Dorset,  the  Earl  of  Gloucester,  and 
others — who  had  been  degraded  to  their  former 
titles  and  estates,  from  which  King  Richard  had 
lifted  them.  These  and  others  brewed  a  secret  plot 
to  take  King  Henry's  life,  which  plot  might  have 
succeeded  had  not  one  of  their  own  number  be- 
trayed them. 

Their  plan  had  been  to  fall  upon  the  King  and 
his  adherents,  and  to  massacre  them  during  a 
great  tournament,  to  be  held  at  Oxford.  But  Henry 
did  not  appear  at  the  lists;  whereupon,  knowing 
that  he  had  been  lodging  at  Windsor  with  only  a 
few  attendants,  the  conspirators  marched  thither 
against  him.  In  the  mean  time  the  King  had  been 
warned  of  the  plot,  so  that,  instead  of  finding  him 
in  the  royal  castle,  they  discovered  through  their 
scouts  that  he  had  hurried  to  London,  whence  he 
was  even  then  marching  against  them  at  the  head 
of  a  considerable  army.  So  nothing  was  left  them 
but  flight.  Some  betook  themselves  one  way,  some 
another;  some  sought  sanctuary  here,  some  there; 
but  one  and  another,  they  were  all  of  them  caught 
and  killed. 

The  Earl  of  Kent — one  time  Duke  of  Surrey — 
and  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  were  beheaded  in  the 
market-place  at  Cirencester;  Lord  Le  Despencer 
— once  the  Earl  of  Gloucester — and  Lord  Lumley 


met  the  same  fate  at  Bristol;  the  Earl  of  Hunting- 
don was  taken  in  the  Essex  fens,  carried  to  the 
castle  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  whom  he  had 
betrayed  to  his  death  in  King  Richard's  time,  and 
was  there  killed  by  the  castle  people.  Those  few 
who  found  friends  faithful  and  bold  enough  to 
afford  them  shelter,  dragged  those  friends  down  in 
their  own  ruin. 

Just  such  a  case  was  that  of  the  father  of  the 
boy  hero  of  this  story,  the  blind  Lord  Gilbert 
Reginald  Falworth,  Baron  of  Falworth  and  East- 
erbridge,  who,  though  having  no  part  in  the  plot, 
suffered  through  it  ruin,  utter  and  complete. 

He  had  been  a  faithful  counsellor  and  adviser  to 
King  Richard,  and  perhaps  it  was  this,  as  much 
and  more  than  his  roundabout  connection  with 
the  plot,  that  brought  upon  him  the  punishment 
he  suffered. 


CHAPTER   1 


/Ih, 


'yles  falworth  was  but  eight  years  of  age  at 
that  time,  and  it  was  only  afterwards,  and  when  he 
grew  old  enough  to  know  more  of  the  ins  and  outs 
of  the  matter,  that  he  could  remember  by  bits  and 
pieces  the  things  that  afterwards  happened;  how 
one  evening  a  knight  came  clattering  into  the 
court-yard  upon  a  horse,  red-nostrilled  and 
smeared  with  the  sweat  and  foam  of  a  desperate 
ride — Sir  John  Dale,  a  dear  friend  of  the  blind 
Lord. 

Even  though  so  young,  Myles  knew  that  some- 
thing very  serious  had  happened  to  make  Sir  John 
so  pale  and  haggard,  and  he  dimly  remembered 
leaning  against  the  knight's  iron-covered  knees, 
looking  up  into  his  gloomy  face,  and  asking  him  if 
he  was  sick  to  look  so  strange.  Thereupon  those 
who  had  been  too  troubled  before  to  notice  him. 


bethought  themselves  of  him,  and  sent  him  to  bed, 
rebellious  at  having  to  go  so  early. 

He  remembered  how  the  next  morning,  looking 
out  of  a  window  high  up  under  the  eaves,  he  saw  a 
great  troop  of  horsemen  come  riding  into  the 
courtyard  beneath,  where  a  powdering  of  snow  had 
whitened  everything,  and  of  how  the  leader,  a 
knight  clad  in  black  armor,  dismounted  and  en- 
tered the  great  hall  door-way  below,  followed  by 
several  of  the  band. 

He  remembered  how  some  of  the  castle  women 
were  standing  in  a  frightened  group  upon  the 
landing  of  the  stairs,  talking  together  in  low  voices 
about  a  matter  he  did  not  understand,  excepting 
that  the  armed  men  who  had  ridden  into  the  court- 
yard had  come  for  Sir  John  Dale.  None  of  the 
women  paid  any  attention  to  him;  so,  shunning 
their  notice,  he  ran  off  down  the  winding  stairs, 
expecting  every  moment  to  be  called  back  again 
by  some  one  of  them. 

A  crowd  of  castle  people,  all  very  serious  and 
quiet,  were  gathered  in  the  hall,  where  a  number 
of  strange  men-at-arms  lounged  upon  the  benches, 
while  two  billmen  in  steel  caps  and  leathern  jacks 
stood  guarding  the  great  door,  the  butts  of  their 
weapons  resting  upon  the  ground,  and  the  staves 
crossed,  barring  the  door-way. 


In  the  anteroom  was  the  knight  in  black  armor 
whom  Myles  had  seen  from  the  window.  He  was 
sitting  at  the  table,  his  great  helmet  lying  upon  the 
bench  beside  him,  and  a  quart  beaker  of  spiced 
wine  at  his  elbow.  A  clerk  sat  at  the  other  end  of 
the  same  table,  with  inkhorn  in  one  hand  and  pen 
in  the  other,  and  a  parchment  spread  in  front  of 
him. 

Master  Robert,  the  castle  steward,  stood  before 
the  knight,  who  every  now  and  then  put  to  him  a 
question,  which  the  other  would  answer,  and  the 
clerk  write  the  answer  down  upon  the  parchment. 

His  father  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace, 
looking  down  upon  the  floor  with  his  blind  eyes, 
his  brows  drawn  moodily  together,  and  the  scar  of 
the  great  wound  that  he  had  received  at  the 
tournament  at  York — the  wound  that  had  made 
him  blind — showing  red  across  his  forehead,  as  it 
always  did  when  he  was  angered  or  troubled. 

There  was  something  about  it  all  that  fright- 
ened Myles,  who  crept  to  his  father's  side,  and  slid 
his  little  hand  into  the  palm  that  hung  limp  and 
inert.  In  answer  to  the  touch,  his  father  grasped 
the  hand  tightly,  but  did  not  seem  otherwise  to 
notice  that  he  was  there.  Neither  did  the  black 
knight  pay  any  attention  to  him,  but  continued 
putting  his  questions  to  Master  Robert. 


Then,  suddenly,  there  was  a  commotion  in  the 
hall  without,  loud  voices,  and  a  hurrying  here  and 
there.  The  black  knight  half  arose,  grasping  a 
heavy  iron  mace  that  lay  upon  the  bench  beside 
him,  and  the  next  moment  Sir  John  Dale  himself, 
as  pale  as  death,  walked  into  the  antechamber. 
He  stopped  in  the  very  middle  of  the  room.  "I 
yield  me  to  my  Lord's  grace  and  mercy,"  said  he  to 
the  black  knight,  and  they  were  the  last  words 
he  ever  uttered  in  this  world. 

The  black  knight  shouted  out  some  words  of 
command,  and  swinging  up  the  iron  mace  in  his 
hand,  strode  forward  clanking  towards  Sir  John, 
who  raised  his  arm  as  though  to  shield  himself 
from  the  blow.  Two  or  three  of  those  who  stood  in 
the  hall  without  came  running  into  the  room  with 
drawn  swords  and  bills,  and  little  Myles,  crying 
out  with  terror,  hid  his  face  in  his  father's  long 
gown. 

The  next  instant  came  the  sound  of  a  heavy 
blow  and  of  a  groan,  then  another  blow  and  the 
sound  of  one  falling  upon  the  ground.  Then  the 
clashing  of  steel,  and  in  the  midst  Lord  Falworth 
crying,  in  a  dreadful  voice,  "Thou  traitor!  thou 
coward!  thou  murderer!" 

Master  Robert  snatched  Myles  away  from  his 
father,  and  bore  him  out  of  the  room  in  spite  of  his 


screams  and  struggles,  and  he  remembered  just 
one  instant's  sight  of  Sir  John  lying  still  and  silent 
upon  his  face,  and  of  the  black  knight  standing 
above  him,  with  the  terrible  mace  in  his  hand 
stained  a  dreadful  red. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  Lord  and  Lady  Fal- 
worth  and  little  Myles,  together  with  three  of  the 
more  faithful  of  their  people,  left  the  castle. 

His  memory  of  past  things  held  a  picture  for 
Myles  of  old  Diccon  Bowman  standing  over 
him  in  the  silence  of  midnight  with  a  lighted  lamp 
in  his  hand,  and  with  it  a  recollection  of  being 
bidden  to  hush  when  he  would  have  spoken,  and 
of  being  dressed  by  Diccon  and  one  of  the  women, 
bewildered  with  sleep,  shuddering  and  chattering 
with  cold. 

He  remembered  being  wrapped  in  the  sheep- 
skin that  lay  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  of  being 
carried  in  Diccon  Bowman's  arms  down  the  silent 
darkness  of  the  winding  stair-way,  with  the  great 
black  giant  shadows  swaying  and  flickering  upon 
the  stone  wall  as  the  dull  flame  of  the  lamp 
swayed  and  flickered  in  the  cold  breathing  of  the 
night  air. 

Below  were  his  father  and  mother  and  two  or 
three  others.  A  stranger  stood  warming  his  hands 
at   a   newly-made   fire,   and   little    Myles,    as   he 


peeped  from  out  the  warm  sheepskin,  saw  that  he 
was  in  riding-boots  and  was  covered  with  mud.  He 
did  not  know  till  long  years  afterwards  that  the 
stranger  was  a  messenger  sent  by  a  friend  at  the 
King's  court,  bidding  his  father  fly  for  safety. 

They  who  stood  there  by  the  red  blaze  of  the 
fire  were  all  very  still,  talking  in  whispers  and 
walking  on  tiptoes,  and  Myles's  mother  hugged 
him  in  her  arms,  sheepskin  and  all,  kissing  him, 
with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks,  and 
whispering  to  him,  as  though  he  could  understand 
their  trouble,  that  they  were  about  to  leave  their 
home  forever. 

Then  Diccon  Bowman  carried  him  out  into  the 
strangeness  of  the  winter  midnight. 

Outside,  beyond  the  frozen  moat,  where  the 
osiers  stood  stark  and  stiff  in  their  winter  naked- 
ness, was  a  group  of  dark  figures  waiting  for  them 
with  horses.  In  the  pallid  moonlight  Myles  recog- 
nized the  well-known  face  of  Father  Edward,  the 
Prior  of  St.  Mary's. 

After  that  came  a  long  ride  through  that  silent 
night  upon  the  saddle-bow  in  front  of  Diccon 
Bowman;  then  a  deep,  heavy  sleep,  that  fell  upon 
him  in  spite  of  the  galloping  of  the  horses. 

When  next  he  woke  the  sun  was  shining,  and 
his  home  and  his  whole  life  were  changed. 


10 


CHAPTER  2 

Jl  ROM  THE  time  the  family  escaped  from  Fal- 
worth  Castle  that  midwinter  night  to  the  time 
Myles  was  sixteen  years  old  he  kne^v  nothing  of 
the  great  world  beyond  Crosbey-Dale.  A  fair  was 
held  twice  in  a  twelvemonth  at  the  market-town  of 
Wisebey,  and  three  times  in  the  seven  years  old 
Diccon  Bowman  took  the  lad  to  see  the  sights  at 
that  place.  Beyond  these  three  glimpses  of  the 
outer  world  he  lived  almost  as  secluded  a  life  as 
one  of  the  neighboring  monks  of  St.  Mary's  Priory. 
Crosbey-Holt,  their  new  home,  was  different 
enough  from  Falworth  or  Easterbridge  Castle,  the 
former  baronial  seats  of  Lord  Falworth.  It  was  a 
long,  low,  straw-thatched  farm-house,  once,  when 
the  church  lands  were  divided  into  two  holdings, 
one  of  the  bailiff's  houses.  All  around  were  the 


11 


fruitful  farms  of  the  priory,  tilled  by  well-to-do 
tenant  holders,  and  rich  with  fields  of  waving 
grain,  and  meadow-lands  where  sheep  and  cattle 
grazed  in  flocks  and  herds;  for  in  those  days  the 
church  lands  were  under  church  rule,  and  were 
governed  by  church  laws,  and  there,  when  war 
and  famine  and  waste  and  sloth  blighted  the  out- 
side world,  harvests  flourished  and  were  gathered, 
and  sheep  were  sheared  and  cows  were  milked  in 
peace  and  quietness. 

The  Prior  of  St.  Mary's  owed  much  if  not  all  of 
the  church's  prosperity  to  the  blind  Lord  Fal- 
worth,  and  now  he  was  paying  it  back  with  a 
haven  of  refuge  from  the  ruin  that  his  former 
patron  had  brought  upon  himself  by  giving  shelter 
to  Sir  John  Dale. 

I  fancy  that  most  boys  do  not  love  the  grinding 
of  school  life — the  lessons  to  be  conned,  the  close 
application  during  study  hours.  It  is  not  often 
pleasant  to  brisk,  lively  lads  to  be  so  cooped  up.  I 
wonder  what  the  boys  of  to-day  would  have 
thought  of  Myles's  training.  With  him  that  train- 
ing was  not  only  of  the  mind,  but  of  the  body  as 
well,  and  for  seven  years  it  was  almost  unremit- 
ting. "Thou  hast  thine  own  way  to  make  in  the 
world,  sirrah,"  his  father  said  more  than  once 
when  the  boy  complained  of  the  grinding  hardness 

12 


of  his  life,  and  to  make  one's  way  in  those  days 
meant  a  thousand  times  more  than  it  does  now;  it 
meant  not  only  a  heart  to  feel  and  a  brain  to  think, 
but  a  hand  quick  and  strong  to  strike  in  battle,  and 
a  body  tough  to  endure  the  wounds  and  blows  in 
return.  And  so  it  was  that  Myles's  body  as  well  as 
his  mind  had  to  be  trained  to  meet  the  needs  of 
the  dark  age  in  which  he  lived. 

Every  morning,  winter  or  summer,  rain  or  shine 
he  tramped  away  six  long  miles  to  the  priory 
school,  and  in  the  evenings  his  mother  taught  him 
French. 

Myles,  being  prejudiced  in  the  school  of 
thought  of  his  day,  rebelled  not  a  little  at  that  last 
branch  of  his  studies.  "Why  must  I  learn  that  vile 
tongue?"  said  he. 

"Call  it  not  vile."  said  the  blind  old  Lord, 
grimly;  "belike,  when  thou  art  grown  a  man, 
thou'lt  have  to  seek  thy  fortune  in  France  land,  for 
England  is  haply  no  place  for  such  as  be  of  Fal- 
worth  blood."  And  in  after-years,  true  to  his  fa- 
ther's prediction,  the  "vile  tongue"  served  him 
well. 

As  for  his  physical  training,  that  pretty  well 
filled  up  the  hours  between  his  morning  studies  at 
the  monastery  and  his  evening  studies  at  home. 
Then  it  was  that  old  Diccon  Bowman  took  him  in 


13 


hand,  than  whom  none  could  be  better  fitted  to 
shape  his  young  body  to  strength  and  his  hands  to 
skill  in  arms.  The  old  bowman  had  served  with 
Lord  Fal worth's  father  under  the  Black  Prince 
both  in  France  and  Spain,  and  in  long  years  of  war 
had  gained  a  practical  knowledge  of  arms  that  few 
could  surpass.  Besides  the  use  of  the  broadsword, 
the  short  sword,  the  quarter-staff,  and  the  cudgel, 
he  taught  Myles  to  shoot  so  skilfully  with  the  long- 
bow and  the  cross-bow  that  not  a  lad  in  the  coun- 
try-side was  his  match  at  the  village  butts.  Attack 
and  defence  with  the  lance,  and  throwing  the 
knife  and  dagger  were  also  part  of  his  training. 

Then,  in  addition  to  this  more  regular  part  of 
his  physical  training,  Myles  was  taught  in  another 
branch  not  so  often  included  in  the  military  edu- 
cation of  the  day — the  art  of  wrestling.  It  hap- 
pened that  a  fellow  lived  in  Crosbey  village,  by 
name  Ralph-the-Smith,  who  was  the  greatest 
wrestler  in  the  country-side,  and  had  worn  the 
champion  belt  for  three  years.  Every  Sunday  af- 
ternoon, in  fair  weather,  he  came  to  teach  Myles 
the  art,  and  being  wonderfully  adept  in  bodily 
feats,  he  soon  grew  so  quick  and  active  and  firm- 
footed  that  he  could  cast  any  lad  under  twenty 
years  of  age  living  within  a  range  of  five  miles. 

"It  is  main  ungentle  armscraft  that  he  learneth," 
said   Lord   Fal  worth   one   day   to   Prior   Edward. 

14 


"Saving  only  the  broadsword,  the  dagger,  and  the 
lance,  there  is  but  little  that  a  gentleman  of  his 
strain  may  use.  Neth'less,  he  gaineth  quickness 
and  suppleness,  and  if  he  hath  true  blood  in  his 
veins  he  will  acquire  knightly  arts  shrewdly  quick 
when  the  time  cometh  to  learn  them." 

But  hard  and  grinding  as  Myles's  life  was,  it  was 
not  entirely  without  pleasures.  There  were  many 
boys  living  in  Crosbey-Dale  and  the  village;  yeo- 
men's and  farmers'  sons,  to  be  sure,  but,  neverthe- 
less, lads  of  his  own  age,  and  that,  after  all,  is 
the  main  requirement  for  friendship  in  boyhood's 
world.  Then  there  was  the  river  to  bathe  in;  there 
were  the  hills  and  valleys  to  roam  over,  and  the 
wold  and  woodland,  with  their  wealth  of  nuts  and 
birds'-nests  and  what  not  of  boyhood's  treasures. 

Once  he  gained  a  triumph  that  for  many  a  day 
was  very  sweet  under  the  tongue  of  his  memory. 
As  was  said  before,  he  had  been  three  times  to  the 
market-town  at  fair-time,  and  upon  the  last  of 
these  occasions  he  had  fought  a  bout  of  quarter- 
staff  with  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  and  had  been 
the  conqueror.  He  was  then  only  a  little  over  four- 
teen years  old. 

Old  Diccon,  who  had  gone  with  him  to  the  fair, 
had  met  some  cronies  of  his  own,  with  whom  he 
had  sat  gossiping  in  the  ale-booth,  leaving  Myles 
for  the  nonce  to  shift  for  himself.  By-and-by  the 


15 


old  man  had  noticed  a  crowd  gathered  at  one  part 
of  the  fair-ground,  and,  snuffing  a  fight,  had  gone 
running,  ale-pot  in  hand.  Then,  peering  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  crowd,  he  had  seen  his  young 
master,  stripped  to  the  waist,  fighting  like  a 
gladiator  with  a  fellow  a  head  taller  than  himself. 
Diccon  was  about  to  force  his  way  through  the 
crowd  and  drag  them  asunder,  but  a  second  look 
had  showed  his  practised  eye  that  Myles  was  not 
only  holding  his  own,  but  was  in  the  way  of  win- 
ning the  victory.  So  he  had  stood  with  the  others 
looking  on,  withholding  himself  from  any  interfer- 
ence and  whatever  upbraiding  might  be  necessary 
until  the  fight  had  been  brought  to  a  triumphant 
close.  Lord  Falworth  never  heard  directly  of  the 
redoubtable  affair,  but  old  Diccon  was  not  so  si- 
lent with  the  common  folk  of  Crosbey-Dale,  and 
so  no  doubt  the  father  had  some  inkling  of  what 
had  happened.  It  was  shortly  after  this  notable 
event  that  Myles  was  formally  initiated  into 
squirehood.  His  father  and  mother,  as  was  the  cus- 
tom, stood  sponsors  for  him.  By  them,  each  bear- 
ing a  lighted  taper,  he  was  escorted  to  the  altar.  It 
was  at  St.  Mary's  Priory,  and  Prior  Edward 
blessed  the  sword  and  girded  it  to  the  lad's  side. 
No  one  was  present  but  the  four,  and  when  the 
good  Prior  had  given  the  benediction  and  had 
signed    the    cross    upon    his    forehead,    Myles's 

16 


mother  stooped  and  kissed  his  brow  just  where  the 
priest's  finger  had  drawn  the  holy  sign.  Her  eyes 
brimmed  bright  with  tears  as  she  did  so.  Poor 
lady!  perhaps  she  only  then  and  for  the  first  time 
realized  how  big  her  fledgling  was  growing  for  his 
nest.  Henceforth  Myles  had  the  right  to  wear  a 
sword, 

Myles  had  ended  his  fifteenth  year.  He  was  a 
bonny  lad,  with  brown  face,  curling  hair,  a  square, 
strong  chin,  and  a  pair  of  merry  laughing  blue 
eyes;  his  shoulders  were  broad;  his  chest  was  thick 
of  girth;  his  muscles  and  thews  were  as  tough  as 
oak. 

The  day  upon  which  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  as 
he  came  whistling  home  from  the  monastery 
school  he  was  met  by  Diccon  Bowman. 

"Master  Myles,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  snuffle 
in  his  voice — "Master  Myles,  thy  father  would  see 
thee  in  his  chamber,  and  bade  me  send  thee  to  him 
as  soon  as  thou  didst  come  home.  Oh,  Master 
Myles,  I  fear  me  that  belike  thou  art  going  to 
leave  home  to-morrow  day." 

Myles  stopped  short.  "To  leave  home!"  he  cried. 

"Aye."  said  old  Diccon,  "belike  thou  goest  to 
some  grand  castle  to  live  there,  and  be  a  page 
there  and  what  not,  and  then,  haply,  a  gentleman- 
at-arms  in  some  great  lord's  pay." 

17 


"What  coil  is  this  about  castles  and  lords  and 
gentlemen-at-arms?"  said  Myles.  "What  talkest 
thou  of,  Diccon?  Art  thou  jesting?" 

"Nay,"  said  Diccon,  "I  am  not  jesting.  But  go  to 
thy  father,  and  then  thou  wilt  presently  know  all. 
Only  this  I  do  say,  that  it  is  like  thou  leavest  us  to- 
morrow day." 

And  so  it  was  as  Diccon  had  said;  Myles  was  to 
leave  home  the  very  next  morning.  He  found  his 
father  and  mother  and  Prior  Edward  together, 
waiting  for  his  coming. 

"We  three  have  been  talking  it  over  this  morn- 
ing," said  his  father,  "and  so  think  each  one  that 
the  time  hath  come  for  thee  to  quit  this  poor  home 
of  ours.  An  thou  stay  here  ten  years  longer,  thou'lt 
be  no  more  fit  to  go  then  than  now.  To-morrow  I 
will  give  thee  a  letter  to  my  kinsman,  the  Earl  of 
Mackworth.  He  has  thriven  in  these  days  and 
I  have  fallen  away,  but  time  was  that  he  and  I  were 
true  sworn  companions,  and  plighted  together  in 
friendship  never  to  be  sundered.  Methinks,  as  I 
remember  him,  he  will  abide  by  his  plighted  troth, 
and  will  give  thee  his  aid  to  rise  in  the  world.  So, 
as  I  said,  to-morrow  morning  thou  shalt  set  forth 
with  Diccon  Bowman,  and  shall  go  to  Castle  Dev- 
len,  and  there  deliver  this  letter  which  prayeth 
him  to  give  thee  a  place  in  his  household.  Thou 
mayst  have  this  afternoon  to  thyself  to  make  ready 


18 


such  things  as  thou  shalt  take  with  thee.  And  bid 
me  Diccon  to  take  the  gray  horse  to  the  village 
and  have  it  shod." 

Prior  Edward  had  been  standing  looking  out  of 
the  window.  As  Lord  Falworth  ended  he  turned. 

"And,  Myles,"  said  he,  "thou  wilt  need  some 
money,  so  I  will  give  thee  as  a  loan  forty  shillings, 
which  some  day  thou  mayst  return  to  me  an  thou 
wilt.  For  this  know,  Myles,  a  man  cannot  do  in  the 
world  without  money.  Thy  father  hath  it  ready  for 
thee  in  the  chest,  and  will  give  it  thee  to-morrow 
ere  thou  goest." 

Lord  Falworth  had  the  grim  strength  of  man- 
hood's hard  sense  to  upbear  him  in  sending  his  son 
into  the  world,  but  the  poor  lady  mother  had  noth- 
ing of  that  to  uphold  her.  No  doubt  it  was  as  hard 
then  as  it  is  now  for  the  mother  to  see  the  nestling 
thrust  from  the  nest  to  shift  for  itself.  What  tears 
were  shed,  what  words  of  love  were  spoken  to  the 
only  man-child,  none  but  the  mother  and  the  son 
ever  knew. 

The  next  morning  Myles  and  the  old  bowman 
rode  away,  and  no  doubt  to  the  boy  himself  the 
dark  shadows  of  leave-taking  were  lost  in  the 
golden  light  of  hope  as  he  rode  out  into  the  great 
world  to  seek  his  fortune. 


19 


CHAPTER  3 


ma 


HAT  MYLEs  remembered  of  Fal worth  loomed 
great  and  grand  and  big,  as  things  do  in  the  mem- 
ory of  childhood,  but  even  memory  could  not 
make  Falworth  the  equal  of  Devlen  Castle,  when, 
as  he  and  Diccon  Bowman  rode  out  of  Devlen- 
town  across  the  great,  rude  stone  bridge  that 
spanned  the  river,  he  first  saw,  rising  above  the 
crowns  of  the  trees,  those  huge  hoary  walls,  and 
the  steep  roofs  and  chimneys  clustered  thickly 
together,  like  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of  a  town. 

The  castle  was  built  upon  a  plateau-like  rise  of 
ground,  which  was  enclosed  by  the  outer  wall.  It 
was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  a  loop-like  bend 
of  the  river,  and  on  the  fourth  was  protected  by  a 
deep,  broad,  artificial  moat,  almost  as  wide  as  the 
stream  from  \vhich  it  was  fed.  The  road  from  the 


20 


town  wound  for  a  little  distance  along  by  the  edge 
of  this  moat.  As  Myles  and  the  old  bowman  gal- 
loped by,  with  the  answering  echo  of  their  horses' 
hoof-beats  rattling  back  from  the  smooth  stone 
face  of  the  walls,  the  lad  looked  up,  wondering  at 
the  height  and  strength  of  the  great  ancient  for- 
tress. In  his  air-castle  building  Myles  had  pictured 
the  Earl  receiving  him  as  the  son  of  his  one-time 
comrade  in  arms — receiving  him,  perhaps,  with 
somewhat  of  the  rustic  warmth  that  he  knew  at 
Crosbey-Dale;  but  now,  as  he  stared  at  those  mas- 
sive walls  from  below,  and  realized  his  own  insig- 
nificance and  the  greatness  of  this  great  Earl,  he 
felt  the  first  keen,  helpless  ache  of  homesickness 
shoot  through  his  breast,  and  his  heart  yearned  for 
Crosbey-Holt  again. 

Then  they  thundered  across  the  bridge  that 
spanned  the  moat,  and  through  the  dark  shadows 
of  the  great  gaping  gate-way,  and  Diccon,  bidding 
him  stay  for  a  moment,  rode  forward  to  bespeak 
the  gate-keeper. 

The  gate-keeper  gave  the  two  in  charge  of  one 
of  the  men-at-arms  who  were  lounging  upon  a 
bench  in  the  archway,  who  in  turn  gave  them  into 
the  care  of  one  of  the  house-servants  in  the  outer 
court-yard.  So,  having  been  passed  from  one  to 
another,   and  having  answered  many   questions, 

21 


Myles  in  due  time  found  himself  in  the  outer 
waiting-room  sitting  beside  Diccon  Bowman  upon 
a  wooden  bench  that  stood  along  the  wall  under 
the  great  arch  of  a  glazed  window. 

For  a  while  the  poor  country  lad  sat  stupidly 
bewildered.  He  was  aware  of  people  coming  and 
going;  he  was  aware  of  talk  and  laughter  sounding 
around  him;  but  he  thought  of  nothing  but  his 
aching  homesickness  and  the  oppression  of  his 
utter  littleness  in  the  busy  life  of  this  great  castle. 

Meantime  old  Diccon  Bowman  was  staring 
about  him  with  huge  interest,  every  now  and  then 
nudging  his  young  master,  calling  his  attention 
now  to  this  and  now  to  that,  until  at  last  the  lad 
began  to  awaken  somewhat  from  his  despondency 
to  the  things  around.  Besides  those  servants  and 
others  who  came  and  went,  and  a  knot  of  six  or 
eight  men-at-arms  with  bills  and  pole-axes,  who 
stood  at  the  farther  door-way  talking  together  in 
low  tones,  now  and  then  broken  by  a  stifled  laugh, 
was  a  group  of  four  young  squires,  who  lounged 
upon  a  bench  beside  a  door-way  hidden  by  an 
arras,  and  upon  them  Myles's  eyes  lit  with  a  sud- 
den interest.  Three  of  the  four  were  about  his  own 
age,  one  was  a  year  or  two  older,  and  all  four  were 
dressed  in  the  black-and-yellow  uniform  of  the 
house  of  Beaumont. 


22 


Myles  plucked  the  bowman  by  the  sleeve.  "Be 
they  squires,  Diccon?"  said  he,  nodding  towards 
the  door. 

"Eh?"  said  Diccon.  "Aye;  they  be  squires." 

"And  will  my  station  be  with  them?"  asked  the 
boy. 

"Aye;  an  the  Earl  take  thee  to  service,  thou'lt 
haply  be  taken  as  squire." 

Myles  stared  at  them,  and  then  of  a  sudden  was 
aware  that  the  young  men  were  talking  of  him.  He 
knew  it  by  the  way  they  eyed  him  askance,  and 
spoke  now  and  then  in  one  another's  ears.  One  of 
the  four,  a  gay  young  fellow,  with  long  riding- 
boots  laced  with  green  laces,  said  a  few  words,  the 
others  gave  a  laugh,  and  poor  Myles,  knowing 
how  ungainly  he  must  seem  to  them,  felt  the  blood 
rush  to  his  cheeks,  and  shyly  turned  his  head. 

Suddenly,  as  though  stirred  by  an  impulse,  the 
same  lad  who  had  just  created  the  laugh  arose 
from  the  bench,  and  came  directly  across  the  room 
to  where  Myles  and  the  bowman  sat. 

"Give  thee  good-den,"  said  he.  "What  be'st  thy 
name  and  whence  comest  thou,  an  I  may  make 
bold  so  to  ask?" 

"My  name  is  Myles  Falworth,"  said  Myles;  "and 
I  come  from  Crosbey-Dale  bearing  a  letter  to  my 
Lord." 


23 


"Never  did  I  hear  of  Crosbey-Dale,"  said  the 
squire.  "But  what  seekest  here,  if  so  be  I  may  ask 
that  much?" 

"I  come  seeking  service,"  said  Myles,  "and 
would  enter  as  an  esquire  such  as  ye  be  in  my 
Lord's  household." 

Myles's  new  acquaintance  grinned.  "Thou'lt 
make  a  droll  squire  to  wait  in  a  Lord's  household," 
said  he.  "Hast  ever  been  in  such  service?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  "I  have  only  been  at  school, 
and  learned  Latin  and  French  and  what  not.  But 
Diccon  Bowman  here  hath  taught  me  use  of 
arms." 

The  young  squire  laughed  outright.  "By  'r  Lady, 
thy  talk  doth  tickle  me,  friend  Myles,"  said  he. 
"Think'st  thou  such  matters  will  gain  thee  footing 
here?  But  stay!  Thou  didst  say  anon  that  thou 
hadst  a  letter  to  my  Lord.  From  whom  is  it?" 

"It  is  from  my  father,"  said  Myles.  "He  is  of 
noble  blood,  but  fallen  in  estate.  He  is  a  kinsman 
of  my  Lord's,  and  one  time  his  comrade  in  arms." 

"Sayst  so?"  said  the  other.  "Then  mayhap  thy 
chances  are  not  so  ill,  after  all."  Then,  after  a 
moment,  he  added:  "My  name  is  Francis  Gas- 
coyne,  and  I  will  stand  thy  friend  in  this  matter. 
Get  thy  letter  ready,  for  my  Lord  and  his  Grace  of 
York  are  within  and  come  forth  anon.  The  Arch- 


24 


bishop  is  on  his  way  to  Dalworth,  and  my  Lord 
escorts  him  so  far  as  Uppingham.  I  and  those  oth- 
ers are  to  go  along.  Dost  thou  know  my  Lord  by 
sight?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  "I  know  him  not." 

"Then  I  will  tell  thee  when  he  cometh.  Listen!" 
said  he,  as  a  confused  clattering  sounded  in  the 
court-yard  without.  "Yonder  are  the  horses  now. 
They  come  presently.  Busk  thee  with  thy  letter, 
friend  Myles." 

The  attendants  who  passed  through  the  ante- 
room now  came  and  went  more  hurriedly,  and 
Myles  knew  that  the  Earl  must  be  about  to  come 
forth.  He  had  hardly  time  to  untie  his  pouch,  take 
out  the  letter,  and  tie  the  strings  again  when  the 
arras  at  the  door-way  was  thrust  suddenly  aside, 
and  a  tall  thin  squire  of  about  twenty  came  forth, 
said  some  words  to  the  young  men  upon  the 
bench,  and  then  withdrew  again.  Instantly  the 
squires  arose  and  took  their  station  beside  the 
door-way.  A  sudden  hush  fell  upon  all  in  the  room, 
and  the  men-at-arms  stood  in  a  line  against  the 
wall,  stiff  and  erect  as  though  all  at  once  trans- 
formed to  figures  of  iron.  Once  more  the  arras  was 
drawn  back,  and  in  the  hush  Myles  heard  voices  in 
the  other  room. 

"My  Lord  cometh,"  whispered  Gascoyne  in  his 

25 


ear,  and  Myles  felt  his  heart  leap  in  answer. 

The  next  moment  two  noblemen  came  into  the 
anteroom,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  gentlemen, 
squires,  and  pages.  One  of  the  two  was  a  dignitary 
of  the  Church;  the  other  Myles  instantly  singled 
out  as  the  Earl  of  Mackworth. 


26 


CHAPTER  4 


IH, 


►E  WAS  a  tall  man,  taller  even  than  Myles's 
father.  He  had  a  thin  face,  deep-set  bushy  eye- 
brows, and  a  hawk  nose.  His  upper  lip  was  clean 
shaven,  but  from  his  chin  a  flowing  beard  of  iron- 
gray  hung  nearly  to  his  waist.  He  was  clad  in  a 
riding-gown  of  black  velvet  that  hung  a  little 
lower  than  the  knee,  trimmed  with  otter  fur  and 
embroidered  wih  silver  goshawks — the  crest  of  the 
family  of  Beaumont. 

A  light  shirt  of  link  mail  showed  beneath  the 
gown  as  he  walked,  and  a  pair  of  soft  undressed 
leather  riding-boots  were  laced  as  high  as  the 
knee,  protecting  his  scarlet  hose  from  mud  and 
dirt.  Over  his  shoulders  he  wore  a  collar  of  enam- 
elled gold,  from  which  hung  a  magnificent  jew- 
elled pendant,  and  upon  his  fist  he  carried  a  beau- 
tiful Iceland  falcon. 


27 


As  Myles  stood  staring,  he  suddenly  heard 
Gascoyne's  voice  whisper  in  his  ear,  "Yon  is  my 
Lord;  go  forward  and  give  him  thy  letter." 

Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  he  walked  to- 
wards the  Earl  like  a  machine,  his  heart  pounding 
within  him  and  a  great  humming  in  his  ears.  As  he 
drew  near,  the  nobleman  stopped  for  a  moment 
and  stared  at  him,  and  Myles,  as  in  a  dream, 
kneeled,  and  presented  the  letter.  The  Earl  took 
it  in  his  hand,  turned  it  this  way  and  that,  looked 
first  at  the  bearer,  then  at  the  packet,  and  then  at 
the  bearer  again. 

"Who  art  thou?"  said  he;  "and  what  is  the  mat- 
ter thou  wouldst  have  of  me?" 

"I  am  Myles  Falworth,"  said  the  lad,  in  a  low 
voice;  "and  I  come  seeking  service  with  you." 

The  Earl  drew  his  thick  eyebrows  quickly  to- 
gether, and  shot  a  keen  look  at  the  lad.  "Fal- 
worth?" said  he,  sharply — "Falworth?  I  know  no 
Falworth!" 

"The  letter  will  tell  you,"  said  Myles.  "It  is  from 
one  once  dear  to  you." 

The  Earl  took  the  letter,  and  handing  it  to  a 
gentleman  who  stood  near,  bade  him  break  the 
seal.  "Thou  mayst  stand,"  said  he  to  Myles; 
"needst  not  kneel  there  forever."  Then,  taking  the 
opened  parchment  again,  he  glanced  first  at  the 

28 


Myles,  as  /n  a  dream,  kneeled  and  presented  the  letter. 


face  and  then  at  the  back,  and,  seeing  its  length, 
looked  vexed.  Then  he  read  for  an  earnest  moment 
or  two,  skipping  from  line  to  line.  Presently  he 
folded  the  letter  and  thrust  it  into  the  pouch  at  his 
side.  "So  it  is,  your  Grace,"  said  he  to  the  lordly 
prelate,  "that  we  who  have  luck  to  rise  in  the 
world  must  ever  suffer  by  being  plagued  at  all 
times  and  seasons.  Here  is  one  I  chanced  to  know 
a  dozen  years  ago,  who  thinks  he  hath  a  claim 
upon  me,  and  saddles  me  with  his  son.  I  must  e'en 
take  the  lad,  too,  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  quiet- 
ness." He  glanced  around,  and  seeing  Gascoyne, 
who  had  drawn  near,  beckoned  to  him.  "Take  me 
this  fellow,"  said  he,  "to  the  buttery,  and  see  him 
fed;  and  then  to  Sir  James  Lee,  and  have  his  name 
entered  in  the  castle  books.  And  stay,  sirrah,"  he 
added;  "bid  me  Sir  James,  if  it  may  be  so  done,  to 
enter  him  as  a  squire-at-arms.  M ethinks  he  will  be 
better  serving  so  than  in  the  household,  for  he  ap- 
peareth  a  soothly  rough  cub  for  a  page." 

Myles  did  look  rustic  enough,  standing  clad  in 
frieze  in  the  midst  of  that  gay  company,  and  a 
murmur  of  laughter  sounded  around,  though  he 
was  too  bewildered  to  fully  understand  that  he 
was  the  cause  of  the  merriment.  Then  some  hand 
drew  him  back — it  was  Gascoyne 's — there  was  a 
bustle  of  people  passing,  and  the  next  minute  they 

29 


were  gone,  and  Myles  and  old  Diccon  Bowman 
and  the  young  squire  were  left  alone  in  the  ante- 
room. 

Gascoyne  looked  very  sour  and  put  out.  "Mur- 
rain upon  it!"  said  he;  "here  is  good  sport  spoiled 
for  me  to  see  thee  fed.  I  wish  no  ill  to  thee,  friend, 
but  I  would  thou  hadst  come  this  afternoon  or 
to-morrow." 

"Methinks  I  bring  trouble  and  dole  to  every 
one,"  said  Myles,  somewhat  bitterly.  "It  would 
have  been  better  had  I  never  come  to  this  place, 
methinks." 

His  words  and  tone  softened  Gascoyne  a  little. 
"Ne'er  mind,"  said  the  squire;  "it  was  not  thy 
fault,  and  is  past  mending  now.  So  come  and  fill 
thy  stomach,  in  Heaven's  name." 

Perhaps  not  the  least  hard  part  of  the  whole 
trying  day  for  Myles  was  his  parting  with  Diccon. 
Gascoyne  and  he  had  accompanied  the  old  re- 
tainer to  the  outer  gate,  in  the  archway  of  which 
they  now  stood;  for  without  a  permit  they  could 
go  no  farther.  The  old  bowman  led  by  the  bridle- 
rein  the  horse  upon  which  Myles  had  ridden  that 
morning.  Hir  own  nag,  a  vicious  brute,  was  restive 
to  be  gone,  but  Diccon  held  him  in  with  tight  rein. 
He  reached  down,  and  took  Myles's  sturdy  brown 
hand  in  his  crooked,  knotted  grasp. 

30 


"Farewell,  young  master,"  he  croaked,  tremu- 
lously, with  a  watery  glimmer  in  his  pale  eyes. 
"Thou  wilt  not  forget  me  when  I  am  gone?" 
"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "I  will  not  forget  thee." 
"Aye,  aye,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  down  at 
him,  and  shaking  his  head  slowly  from  side  to 
side;  "thou  art  a  great  tall  sturdy  fellow  now,  yet 
have  I  held  thee  on  my  knee  many  and  many's  the 
time,  and  dandled  thee  when  thou  wert  only  a 
little  weeny  babe.  Be  still,  thou  devil's  limb!"  he 
suddenly  broke  off,  reining  back  his  restive  raw- 
boned  steed,  which  began  again  to  caper  and 
prance.  Myles  was  not  sorry  for  the  interruption; 
he  felt  awkward  and  abashed  at  the  parting,  and 
at  the  old  man's  reminiscences,  knowing  that 
Gascoyne's  eyes  were  resting  amusedly  upon  the 
scene,  and  that  the  men-at-arms  were  looking  on. 
Certainly  old  Diccon  did  look  droll  as  he  struggled 
vainly  with  his  vicious  high-necked  nag.  "Nay,  a 
murrain  on  thee!  an'  thou  wilt  go,  go!"  cried  he  at 
last,  with  a  savage  dig  of  his  heels  into  the  ani- 
mal's ribs,  and  away  they  clattered,  the  led-horse 
kicking  up  its  heels  as  a  final  parting,  setting  Gas- 
coyne  fairly  alaughing.  At  the  bend  of  the  road  the 
old  man  turned  and  nodded  his  head;  the  next 
moment  he  had  disappeared  around  the  angle  of 
the  wall,  and  it  seemed  to  Myles,  as  he  stood  look- 

31 


ing  after  him,  as  though  the  last  thread  that  bound 
him  to  his  old  life  had  snapped  and  broken.  As  he 
turned  he  saw  that  Gascoyne  was  looking  at 
him. 

"Dost  feel  downhearted?"  said  the  young  squire, 
curiously. 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  brusquely.  Nevertheless  his 
throat  was  tight  and  dry,  and  the  word  came 
huskily  in  spite  of  himself. 


32 


CHAPTER  5 


IT, 


HE  EARL  of  Mackworth,  as  was  customary 
among  the  great  lords  in  those  days,  maintained  a 
small  army  of  knights,  gentlemen,  men-at-arms, 
and  retainers,  who  were  expected  to  serve  him 
upon  all  occasions  of  need,  and  from  whom  were 
supplied  his  quota  of  recruits  to  fill  such  levies  as 
might  be  made  upon  him  by  the  King  in  time  of 
war. 

The  knights  and  gentlemen  of  this  little  army  of 
horse  and  foot  soldiers  were  largely  recruited  from 
the  company  of  squires  and  bachelors,  as  the 
young  novitiate  soldiers  of  the  castle  were  called. 

This  company  of  esquires  consisted  of  from 
eighty  to  ninety  lads,  ranging  in  age  from  eight  to 
twenty  years.  Those  under  fourteen  years  were 
termed  pages,  and  served  chiefly  the  Countess  and 

33 


her  waiting  gentlewomen,  in  whose  company  they 
acquired  the  graces  and  polish  of  the  times,  such 
as  they  were.  After  reaching  the  age  of  fourteen 
the  lads  were  entitled  to  the  name  of  esquire  or 
squire. 

In  most  of  the  great  houses  of  the  time  the  es- 
quires were  the  especial  attendants  upon  the  Lord 
and  Lady  of  the  house,  holding  such  positions  as 
body-squires,  cup-bearers,  carvers,  and  sometimes 
the  office  of  chamberlain.  But  Devlen,  like  some 
other  of  the  princely  castles  of  the  greatest  nobles, 
was  more  like  a  military  post  or  a  fortress  than  an 
ordinary  household.  Only  comparatively  few  of 
the  esquires  could  be  used  in  personal  attendance 
upon  the  Earl;  the  others  were  trained  more 
strictly  in  arms,  and  served  rather  in  the  capacity 
of  a  sort  of  body-guard  than  as  ordinary  squires. 
For,  as  the  Earl  rose  in  power  and  influence,  and 
as  it  so  became  well  worth  while  for  the  lower 
nobility  and  gentry  to  enter  their  sons  in  his  fam- 
ily, the  body  of  squires  became  almost  cumber- 
somely  large.  Accordingly,  that  part  which  com- 
prised the  squires  proper,  as  separate  from  the 
younger  pages,  was  divided  into  three  classes — 
first,  squires  of  the  body,  who  were  those  just  past 
pagehood,  and  who  waited  upon  the  Earl  in  per- 
sonal service;  second,  squires  of  the  household, 

34 


who,  having  regular  hours  assigned  for  exercise  in 
the  manual  of  arms,  were  relieved  from  personal 
service  excepting  upon  especial  occasions;  and 
thirdly  and  lastly,  at  the  head  of  the  whole  body 
of  lads,  a  class  called  bachelors — young  men  rang- 
ing from  eighteen  to  twenty  years  of  age.  This 
class  was  supposed  to  exercise  a  sort  of  govern- 
ment over  the  other  and  younger  squires — to  keep 
them  in  order  as  much  as  possible,  to  marshal 
them  upon  occasions  of  importance,  to  see  that 
their  arms  and  equipments  were  kept  in  good 
order,  to  call  the  roll  for  chapel  in  the  morning, 
and  to  see  that  those  not  upon  duty  in  the  house 
were  present  at  the  daily  exercise  at  arms.  Orders 
to  the  squires  were  generally  transmitted  through 
the  bachelors,  and  the  head  of  that  body  was  ex- 
pected to  make  weekly  reports  of  affairs  in  their 
quarters  to  the  chief  captain  of  the  body. 

From  this  overlordship  of  the  bachelors  there 
had  gradually  risen  a  system  of  fagging,  such  as  is 
or  was  practised  in  the  great  English  public 
schools — enforced  services  exacted  from  the 
younger  lads — which  at  the  time  Myles  came  to 
Devlen  had,  in  the  five  or  six  years  it  had  been  in 
practice,  grown  to  be  an  absolute  though  unwrit- 
ten law  of  the  body — a  law  supported  by  all  the 
prestige  of  long-continued  usage.  At  that  time  the 


35 


bachelors  numbered  but  thirteen,  yet  they  exer- 
cised over  the  rest  of  the  sixty-four  squires  and 
pages  a  rule  of  iron,  and  were  taskmasters,  hard, 
exacting,  and  oftentimes  cruel. 

The  whole  company  of  squires  and  pages  was 
under  the  supreme  command  of  a  certain  one-eyed 
knight,  by  name  Sir  James  Lee;  a  soldier  seasoned 
by  the  fire  of  a  dozen  battles,  bearing  a  score  of 
wounds  won  in  fight  and  tourney,  and  withered  by 
hardship  and  labor  to  a  leather-like  toughness.  He 
had  fought  upon  the  King's  side  in  all  the  late 
wars,  and  had  at  Shrewsbury  received  a  wound 
that  unfitted  him  for  active  service,  so  that  now  he 
was  fallen  to  the  post  of  Captain  of  Esquires  at 
Devlen  Castle — a  man  disappointed  in  life,  and 
with  a  temper  imbittered  by  that  failure  as  well  as 
by  cankering  pain. 

Yet  perhaps  no  one  could  have  been  better  fitted 
for  the  place  he  held  than  Sir  James  Lee.  The  lads 
under  his  charge  were  a  rude,  rough,  unruly  set, 
quick,  like  their  elders,  to  quarrel,  and  to  quarrel 
fiercely,  even  to  the  drawing  of  sword  or  dagger. 
But  there  was  a  cold,  iron  sternness  about  the 
grim  old  man  that  quelled  them,  as  the  trainer 
with  a  lash  of  steel  might  quell  a  den  of  young 
wolves.  The  apartments  in  which  he  was  lodged, 
with  his  clerk,  were  next  in  the  dormitory  of  the 

36 


lads,  and  even  in  the  midst  of  the  most  excited 
brawlings  the  distant  sound  of  his  harsh  voice,  "Si- 
lence, messieurs!"  would  bring  an  instant  hush  to 
the  loudest  uproar. 

It  was  into  his  grim  presence  that  Myles  was 
introduced  by  Gascoyne.  Sir  James  was  in  his 
office,  a  room  bare  of  ornament  or  adornment  or 
superfluous  comfort  of  any  sort — without  even 
so  much  as  a  mat  of  rushes  up>on  the  cold  stone 
pavement  to  make  it  less  cheerless.  The  old  one- 
eyed  knight  sat  gnawing  his  bristling  mustaches. 
To  anyone  who  knew  him  it  would  have  been  ap- 
parent that,  as  the  castle  phrase  went,  "the  devil 
sat  astride  of  his  neck,"  which  meant  that  some 
one  of  his  blind  wounds  was  aching  more  sorely 
than  usual. 

His  clerk  sat  beside  him,  with  account-books 
and  parchment  spread  upon  the  table,  and  the 
head  squire,  Walter  Blunt,  a  lad  some  three  or 
four  years  older  than  Myles,  and  half  a  head  taller, 
black-browed,  powerfully  built,  and  with  cheek 
and  chin  darkened  by  the  soft  budding  of  his 
adolescent  beard,  stood  making  his  report. 

Sir  James  listened  in  grim  silence  while  Gas- 
coyne told  his  errand. 

"So,  then,  pardee,  I  am  bid  to  take  another  one 
of  ye,  am  I?"  he  snarled.  "As  though  ye  caused  me 

37 


not  trouble  enow;  and  this  one  a  cub,  looking  a 
very  boor  in  carriage  and  breeding.  Mayhap  the 
Earl  thinketh  I  am  to  train  boys  to  his  dilly-dally 
household  service  as  well  as  to  use  of  arms." 

"Sir,"  said  Gascoyne,  timidly,  "my  Lord  sayeth 
he  would  have  this  one  entered  direct  as  a  squire 
of  the  body,  so  that  he  need  not  serve  in  the 
household." 

"Sayest  so?"  cried  Sir  James,  harshly.  "Then 
take  thou  my  message  back  again  to  thy  Lord.  Not 
for  Mackworth — no,  nor  a  better  man  than  he — 
will  I  make  any  changes  in  my  government.  An  I 
be  set  to  rule  a  pack  of  boys,  I  will  rule  them  as  I 
list,  and  not  according  to  any  man's  bidding.  Tell 
him,  sirrah,  that  I  will  enter  no  lad  as  squire  of  the 
body  without  first  testing  an  he  be  fit  at  arms  to 
hold  that  place."  He  sat  for  a  while  glowering  at 
Myles  and  gnawing  his  mustaches,  and  for  the 
time  no  one  dared  to  break  the  grim  silence. 
"What  is  thy  name?"  said  he,  suddenly.  And  then, 
almost  before  Myles  could  answer,  he  asked  the 
head  squire  whether  he  could  find  a  place  to  lodge 
him. 

"There  is  Gillis  Whitlock's  cot  empty,"  said 
Blunt.  "He  is  in  the  infirmary,  and  belike  goeth 
home  again  when  he  cometh  thence.  The  fever 
hath  gotten  into  his  bones,  and — " 

38 


"That  will  do,"  said  the  knight,  interrupting 
him  impatiently.  "Let  him  take  that  place,  or  any 
other  that  thou  hast.  And  thou,  Jerome,"  said  he 
to  his  clerk,  "thou  mayst  enter  him  upon  the  roll, 
though  whether  it  be  as  page  or  squire  or  bachelor 
shall  be  as  I  please,  and  not  as  Mackworth  biddeth 
me.  Now  get  ye  gone." 

"Old  Bruin's  wound  smarteth  him  sore,"  Gas- 
coyne  observed,  as  the  two  lads  walked  across  the 
armory  court.  He  had  good-naturedly  offered  to 
show  the  new-comer  the  many  sights  of  interest 
around  the  castle,  and  in  the  hour  or  so  of  ramble 
that  followed,  the  two  grew  from  acquaintances  to 
friends  with  a  quickness  that  boyhood  alone  can 
bring  about.  They  visited  the  armory,  the  chapel, 
the  stables,  the  great  hall,  the  Painted  Chamber, 
the  guard-house,  the  mess-room,  and  even  the 
scullery  and  the  kitchen,  with  its  great  range  of 
boilers  and  furnaces  and  ovens.  Last  of  all  Myles's 
new  friend  introduced  him  to  the  armor-smithy, 

"My  Lord  hath  sent  a  piece  of  Milan  armor 
thither  to  be  repaired,"  said  he.  "Belike  thou 
would  like  to  see  it." 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  eagerly,  "that  would  L" 

The  smith  was  a  gruff,  good-natured  fellow,  and 
showed  the  piece  of  armor  to  Myles  readily  and 
willingly  enough.  It  was  a  beautiful  bascinet  of 

39 


inlaid  workmanship,  and  was  edged  with  a  rim  of 
gold.  Myles  scarcely  dared  touch  it;  he  gazed  at  it 
with  an  unconcealed  delight  that  warmed  the 
smith's  honest  heart. 

"I  have  another  piece  of  Milan  here,"  said  he. 
"Did  I  ever  show  thee  my  dagger,  Master  Gas- 
coyne?" 

"Nay,"  said  the  squire. 

The  smith  unlocked  a  great  oaken  chest  in  the 
corner  of  the  shop,  lifted  the  lid,  and  brought 
thence  a  beautiful  dagger  with  the  handle  of 
ebony  and  silver -gilt,  and  a  sheath  of  Spanish 
leather,  embossed  and  gilt.  The  keen,  well- 
tempered  blade  was  beautifully  engraved  and  in- 
laid with  niello-work,  representing  a  group  of  fig- 
ures in  a  then  popular  subject — the  dance  of 
Death.  It  was  a  weapon  at  once  unique  and  beau- 
tiful, and  even  Gascoyne  showed  an  admiration 
scarcely  less  keen  than  Myles's  openly-expressed 
delight. 

"To  whom  doth  it  belong?"  said  he,  trying  the 
point  upon  his  thumb  nail. 

"There,"  said  the  smith,  "is  the  jest  of  the 
whole,  for  it  belongeth  to  me.  Sir  William  Beau- 
clerk  bade  me  order  the  weapon  through  Master 
Gildersworthy,  of  London  town,  and  by  the  time 
it  came  hither,  lo!  he  had  died,  and  so  it  fell  to  my 

40 


hands.  No  one  here  payeth  the  price  for  the  trin- 
ket, and  so  I  must  e'en  keep  it  myself,  though  I  be 
but  a  poor  man." 

"How  much  dost  thou  hold  it  for?"  said  Gas- 
coy  ne. 

"Seventeen  shillings  buyeth  it,"  said  the  ar- 
morer, carelessly. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Gascoyne,  with  a  sigh;  "so  it  is 
to  be  poor,  and  not  be  able  to  have  such  things  as 
one  loveth  and  would  fain  possess.  Seventeen  shil- 
lings is  nigh  as  much  by  half  again  as  all  my 
yearly  wage." 

Then  a  sudden  thought  came  to  Myles,  and  as  it 
came  his  cheeks  glowed  as  hot  as  fire  "Master 
Gascoyne,"  said  he,  with  gruff  awkwardness,  "thou 
hast  been  a  very  good,  true  friend  to  me  since  I 
have  come  to  this  place,  and  hast  befriended  me  in 
all  ways  thou  mightest  do,  and  I,  as  well  I  know, 
but  a  poor  rustic  clod.  Now  I  have  forty  shillings 
by  me  which  I  may  spend  as  I  list,  and  so  I  do 
beseech  thee  that  thou  wilt  take  yon  dagger  of  me 
as  a  love-gift,  and  have  and  hold  it  for  thy  very 
own." 

Gascoyne  stared  open-mouthed  at  Myles.  "Dost 
mean  it?"  said  he,  at  last. 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  "I  do  mean  it.  Master  Smith, 
give  him  the  blade." 


41 


At  first  the  smith  grinned,  thinking  it  all  a  jest; 
but  he  soon  saw  that  Myles  was  serious  enough, 
and  when  the  seventeen  shillings  were  produced 
and  counted  down  upon  the  anvil,  he  took  off  his 
cap  and  made  Myles  a  low  bow  as  he  swept  them 
into  his  pouch.  "Now,  by  my  faith  and  troth," 
quoth  he,  "that  I  do  call  a  true  lordly  gift.  Is  it  not 
so,  Master  Gascoyne?" 

"Aye,"  said  Gascoyne,  with  a  gulp,  "it  is,  in 
soothly  earnest."  And  thereupon,  to  Myles's  great 
wonderment,  he  suddenly  flung  his  arms  about  his 
neck,  and,  giving  him  a  great  hug,  kissed  him 
upon  the  cheek.  "Dear  Myles,"  said  he,  "I  tell  thee 
truly  and  of  a  verity  I  did  feel  warm  towards  thee 
from  the  very  first  time  I  saw  thee  sitting  like  a 
poor  oaf  upon  the  bench  up  yonder  in  the  ante- 
room, and  now  of  a  sooth  I  give  thee  assurance 
that  I  do  love  thee  as  my  own  brother.  Yea,  I  will 
take  the  dagger,  and  will  stand  by  thee  as  a  true 
friend  from  this  time  forth.  Mayhap  thou  mayst 
need  a  true  friend  in  this  place  ere  thou  livest  long 
with  us,  for  some  of  us  esquires  be  soothly  rough, 
and  knocks  are  more  plenty  here  than  broad  pen- 
nies, so  that  one  new  come  is  like  to  have  a  hard 
time  gaining  a  footing." 

"I  thank  thee,"  said  Myles,  "for  thy  offer  of  love 
and  friendship,  and  do  tell  thee,  upon  my  part, 

42 


that  I  also  of  all  the  world  would  like  best  to  have 
thee  for  my  friend." 

Such  was  the  manner  in  which  Myles  formed 
the  first  great  friendship  of  his  life,  a  friendship 
that  was  destined  to  last  him  through  many  years 
to  come.  As  the  two  walked  back  across  the  great 
quadrangle,  upon  which  fronted  the  main  build- 
ings of  the  castle,  their  arms  were  wound  across 
one  another's  shoulders,  after  the  manner,  as  a  cer- 
tain great  writer  says,  of  boys  and  lovers. 


43 


CHAPTER  6 


m 


boy's  life  is  of  a  very  flexible  sort.  It  takes 
but  a  little  while  for  it  to  shape  itself  to  any  new 
surroundings  in  which  it  may  be  thrown,  to  make 
itself  new  friends,  to  settle  itself  to  new  habits; 
and  so  it  was  that  Myles  fell  directly  into  the  ways 
of  the  lads  of  Devlen.  On  his  first  morning,  as  he 
washed  his  face  and  hands  with  the  other  squires 
and  pages  in  a  great  tank  of  water  in  the  armory 
court-yard,  he  presently  found  himself  splashing 
and  dashing  with  the  others,  laughing  and  shout- 
ing as  loud  as  any,  and  calling  some  by  their 
Christian  names  as  though  he  had  known  them  for 
years  instead  of  overnight.  During  chapel  he 
watched  with  sympathetic  delight  the  covert 
pranks  of  the  youngsters  during  the  half-hour  that 
Father  Emmanuel  droned  his  Latin,  and  with  his 


44 


dagger  point  he  carved  his  own  name  among  the 
many  cut  deep  into  the  back  of  the  bench  before 
him.  When,  after  breakfast,  the  squires  poured 
like  school-boys  into  the  great  armory  to  answer  to 
the  roll-call  for  daily  exercise,  he  came  storming  in 
with  the  rest,  beating  the  lad  in  front  of  him  with 
his  cap. 

Boys  are  very  keen  to  feel  the  influence  of  a 
forceful  character.  A  lad  with  a  strong  will  is 
quick  to  reach  his  proper  level  as  a  greater  or 
lesser  leader  among  the  others,  and  Myles  was  of 
just  the  masterful  nature  to  make  his  individuality 
felt  among  the  Devlen  squires.  He  was  quick 
enough  to  yield  obedience  upon  all  occasions  to 
proper  authority,  but  would  never  bend  an  inch 
to  the  usurpation  of  tyranny.  In  the  school  at  St. 
Mary's  Priory  at  Crosbey-Dale  he  would  submit 
without  a  murmur  or  offer  of  resistance  to  chas- 
tisement by  old  Father  Ambrose,  the  regular 
teacher;  but  once,  when  the  fat  old  monk  was  sick, 
and  a  great  long-legged  strapping  young  friar, 
who  had  temporarily  taken  his  place,  undertook  to 
administer  punishment,  Myles,  with  a  wrestling 
trip,  flung  him  sprawling  backward  over  a  bench 
into  the  midst  of  a  shoal  of  small  boys  amid  a 
hubbub  of  riotous  confusion.  He  had  been  flogged 
soundly  for  it  under  the  supervision  of  Prior  Ed- 

45 


ward  himself;  but  so  soon  as  his  punishment  was 
over,  he  assured  the  prior  very  seriously  that 
should  like  occasion  again  happen  he  would  act  in 
the  same  manner,  flogging  or  no  flogging. 

It  was  this  bold,  outspoken  spirit  that  gained 
him  at  once  friends  and  enemies  at  Devlen,  and 
though  it  first  showed  itself  in  what  was  but  a 
little  matter,  nevertheless  it  set  a  mark  upon  him 
that  singled  him  out  from  the  rest,  and,  although 
he  did  not  suspect  it  at  the  time,  called  to  him  the 
attention  of  Sir  James  Lee  himself,  who  regarded 
him  as  a  lad  of  free  and  frank  spirit. 

The  first  morning  after  the  roll-call  in  the 
armory,  as  Walter  Blunt,  the  head  bachelor,  rolled 
up  the  slip  of  parchment,  and  the  temporary  si- 
lence burst  forth  into  redoubled  noise  and  confu- 
sion, each  lad  arming  himself  from  a  row  of  racks 
that  stood  along  the  wall,  he  beckoned  Myles  to 
him. 

"My  Lord  himself  hath  spoken  to  Sir  James  Lee 
concerning  thee,"  said  he.  "Sir  James  maintaineth 
that  he  will  not  enter  thee  into  the  body  till  thou 
hast  first  practised  for  a  while  at  the  pels,  and 
shown  what  thou  canst  do  at  broadsword.  Hast 
ever  fought  at  the  pel?" 

"Aye,"  answered  Myles,  "and  that  every  day  of 
my  life  sin  I  became  esquire  four  years  ago,  saving 

46 


only  Sundays  and  holy  days." 

"With  shield  and  broadsword?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  Myles,  "and  sometimes  with 
the  short  sword." 

"Sir  James  would  have  thee  come  to  the  tilt- 
yard  this  morn;  he  himself  will  take  thee  in  hand 
to  try  what  thou  canst  do.  Thou  mayst  take  the 
arms  upon  yonder  rack,  and  use  them  until  other- 
wise bidden.  Thou  seest  that  the  number  painted 
above  it  on  the  wall  is  seventeen;  that  will  be  thy 
number  for  the  nonce." 

So  Myles  armed  himself  from  his  rack  as  the 
others  were  doing  from  theirs.  The  armor  was 
rude  and  heavy,  used  to  accustom  the  body  to  the 
weight  of  the  iron  plates  rather  than  for  any  de- 
fence. It  consisted  of  a  cuirass,  or  breastplate  of 
iron,  opening  at  the  side  with  hinges,  and  catching 
with  hooks  and  eyes;  epauliers,  or  shoulder-plates; 
arm-plates  and  leg-pieces;  and  a  bascinet,  or  open- 
faced  helmet.  A  great  triangular  shield  covered 
with  leather  and  studded  with  bosses  of  iron,  and 
a  heavy  broadsword,  pointed  and  dulled  at  the 
edges,  completed  the  equipment. 

The  practice  at  the  pels  which  Myles  was  bid- 
den to  attend  comprised  the  chief  exercise  of  the 
day  with  the  esquires  of  young  cadet  soldiers  of 
that  time,  and  in  it  they  learned  not  only  all  the 

47 


strokes,  cuts,  and  thrusts  of  sword-play  then  in 
vogue,  but  also  toughness,  endurance,  and  elastic 
quickness.  The  pels  themselves  consisted  of  up- 
right posts  of  ash  or  oak,  about  five  feet  six  inches 
in  height,  and  in  girth  somewhat  thicker  than  a 
man's  thigh.  They  were  firmly  planted  in  the 
ground,  and  upon  them  the  strokes  of  the  broad- 
sword were  directed. 

At  Devlen  the  pels  stood  just  back  of  the  open 
and  covered  tilting  courts  and  the  archery  ranges, 
and  thither  those  lads  not  upon  household  duty 
were  marched  every  morning  excepting  Fridays 
and  Sundays,  and  were  there  exercised  under  the 
direction  of  Sir  James  Lee  and  two  assistants.  The 
whole  company  was  divided  into  two,  sometimes 
into  three  parties,  each  of  which  took  its  turn  at 
the  exercise,  delivering  at  the  word  of  command 
the  various  strokes,  feints,  attacks,  and  retreats  as 
the  instructors  ordered. 

After  five  minutes  of  this  mock  battle  the  per- 
spiration began  to  pour  down  the  faces,  and  the 
breath  to  come  thick  and  short;  but  it  was  not 
until  the  lads  could  absolutely  endure  no  more 
that  the  order  was  given  to  rest,  and  they  were 
allowed  to  fling  themselves  panting  upon  the 
ground,  while  another  company  took  its  place  at 
the  triple  row  of  posts. 

48 


As  Myles  struck  and  hacked  at  the  pel  assigned 
to  him,  Sir  James  Lee  stood  beside  him  watching 
him  in  grim  silence.  The  lad  did  his  best  to  show 
the  knight  all  that  he  knew  of  upper  cut,  under 
cut,  thrust,  and  back-hand  stroke,  but  it  did  not 
seem  to  him  that  Sir  James  was  very  well  satisfied 
with  his  skill, 

"Thou  fightest  like  a  clodpole,"  said  the  old 
man.  "Ha,  that  stroke  was  but  ill-recovered.  Strike 
me  it  again,  and  get  thou  in  guard  more  quickly." 

Myles  repeated  the  stroke. 

"Pest!"  cried  Sir  James.  "Thou  art  too  slow  by  a 
week.  Here,  strike  thou  the  blow  at  me." 

Myles  hesitated.  Sir  James  held  a  stout  staff  in 
his  hand,  but  otherwise  he  was  unarmed. 

"Strike,  I  say!"  said  Sir  James.  "What  stayest 
thou  for?  Art  afeard?" 

It  was  Myles's  answer  that  set  the  seal  of  indi- 
viduality upon  him.  "Nay,"  said  he,  boldly,  "I  am 
not  afeard.  I  fear  not  thee  nor  any  man!"  So  say- 
ing, he  delivered  the  stroke  at  Sir  James  with 
might  and  main.  It  was  met  with  a  jarring  blow 
that  made  his  wrist  and  arm  tingle,  and  the  next 
instant  he  received  a  stroke  upon  the  bascinet  that 
caused  his  ears  to  ring  and  the  sparks  to  dance  and 
fly  before  his  eyes. 

"Pardee!"  said  Sir  James,  grimly.  "An  I  had  had 

49 


a  mace  in  my  hand,  I  would  have  knocked  thy 
cockerel  brains  out  that  time.  Thou  mayst  take 
that  blow  for  answering  me  so  pertly.  And  now  we 
are  quits.  Now  strike  me  the  stroke  again  an  thou 
art  not  afeard." 

Myles's  eyes  watered  in  spite  of  himself,  and  he 
shut  the  lids  tight  to  wink  the  dimness  away.  Nev- 
ertheless he  spoke  up  undauntedly  as  before. 
"Aye,  marry,  will  I  strike  it  again,"  said  he;  and 
this  time  he  was  able  to  recover  guard  quickly 
enough  to  turn  Sir  James's  blow  with  his  shield, 
instead  of  receiving  it  upon  his  head. 

"So!"  said  Sir  James.  "Now  mind  thee  of  this, 
that  when  thou  strikest  that  lower  cut  at  the  legs, 
recover  thyself  more  quickly.  Now,  then,  strike  me 
it  at  the  pel." 

Gascoyne  and  other  of  the  lads  who  were  just 
then  lying  stretched  out  upon  the  grass  beneath  a 
tree  at  the  edge  of  the  open  court  where  stood  the 
pels,  were  interested  spectators  of  the  whole 
scene.  Not  one  of  them  in  their  memory  had  heard 
Sir  James  so  answered  face  to  face  as  Myles  had 
answered  him,  and,  after  all,  perhaps  the  lad  him- 
self would  not  have  done  so  had  he  been  longer  a 
resident  in  the  squires'  quarters  at  Devlen. 

"By  'r  Lady!  thou  art  a  cool  blade,  Myles,"  said 
Gascoyne,  as  they  marched  back  to  the  armory 

50 


again.  "Never  heard  I  one  bespeak  Sir  James  as 
thou  hast  done  this  day." 

"And,  after  all,"  said  another  of  the  young 
squires,  "old  Bruin  was  not  so  ill-pleased,  me- 
thinks.  That  was  a  shrewd  blow  he  fetched  thee  on 
the  crown,  Falworth.  Marry,  I  would  not  have  had 
it  on  my  own  skull  for  a  silver  p>enny." 


51 


CHAPTER  7 


S< 


'o  LITTLE  does  it  take  to  make  a  body's  reputa- 
tion. 

That  night  all  the  squires'  quarters  buzzed  with 
the  story  of  how  the  new  boy,  Falworth,  had  an- 
swered Sir  James  Lee  to  his  face  without  fear,  and 
had  exchanged  blows  with  him  hand  to  hand. 
Walter  Blunt  himself  was  moved  to  some  show  of 
interest. 

"What  said  he  to  thee,  Falworth?"  asked  he. 

"He  said  naught,"  said  Myles,  brusquely.  "He 
only  sought  to  show  me  how  to  recover  from  the 
under  cut." 

"It  is  passing  strange  that  he  should  take  so 
much  notice  of  thee  as  to  exchange  blows  with 
thee  with  his  own  hand.  Haply  thou  art  either 
very  quick  or  parlous  slow  at  arms." 

52 


"It  is  quick  that  he  is,"  said  Gascoyne,  speaking 
up  in  his  friend's  behalf.  "For  the  second  time  that 
Falworth  delivered  the  stroke,  Sir  James  could  not 
reach  him  to  return;  so  I  saw  with  mine  own  eyes." 

But  that  very  sterling  independence  that  had 
brought  Myles  so  creditably  through  this  adven- 
ture was  certain  to  embroil  him  with  the  rude, 
half-savage  lads  about  him,  some  of  whom,  espe- 
cially among  the  bachelors,  were  his  superiors  as 
well  in  age  as  in  skill  and  training.  As  said  before, 
the  bachelors  had  enforced  from  the  younger  boys 
a  fagging  sort  of  attendance  on  their  various  per- 
sonal needs,  and  it  was  upon  this  point  that  Myles 
first  came  to  grief.  As  it  chanced,  several  days 
passed  before  any  demand  was  made  upon  him  for 
service  to  the  heads  of  the  squirehood,  but  when 
that  demand  was  made,  the  bachelors  were  very 
quick  to  see  that  the  boy  who  was  bold  enough  to 
speak  up  to  Sir  James  Lee  was  not  likely  to  be  a 
willing  fag  for  them. 

"I  tell  thee,  Francis,"  he  said,  as  Gascoyne  and 
he  talked  over  the  matter  one  day — "I  tell  thee  I 
will  never  serve  them.  Prithee,  what  shame  can  be 
fouler  than  to  do  such  menial  service,  saving  for 
one's  rightful  Lord?" 

"Marry!"  quoth  Gascoyne;  "I  reason  not  of 
shame  at  this  or  that.  All  I  know  is  that  others 


53 


serve  them  who  are  haply  as  good  and  maybe  bet- 
ter than  I  be,  and  that  i£  I  do  not  serve  them  I  get 
knocked  i'  th'  head  therefore,  which  same  goeth 
soothly  against  my  stomach." 

"I  judge  not  for  thee,"  said  Myles.  "Thou  art 
used  to  these  castle  ways,  but  only  I  know  that  I 
will  not  serve  them,  though  they  be  thirty  against 
me  instead  of  thirteen." 

"Then  thou  art  a  fool,"  said  Gascoyne,  dryly. 

Now  in  this  matter  of  service  there  was  one 
thing  above  all  others  that  stirred  Myles  Fal- 
worth's  ill-liking.  The  winter  before  he  had  come 
to  Devlen,  Walter  Blunt,  who  was  somewhat  of  a 
Sybarite  in  his  way,  and  who  had  a  repugnance  to 
bathing  in  the  general  tank  in  the  open  armory 
court  in  frosty  weather,  had  had  Dick  Carpenter 
build  a  trough  in  the  corner  of  the  dormitory  for 
the  use  of  the  bachelors,  and  every  morning  it  was 
the  duty  of  two  of  the  younger  squires  to  bring 
three  pails  of  water  to  fill  this  private  tank  for 
the  use  of  the  head  esquires.  It  was  seeing  two  of 
his  fellow-esquires  fetching  and  carrying  this 
water  that  Myles  disliked  so  heartily,  and  every 
morning  his  bile  was  stirred  anew  at  the  sight. 

"Sooner  would  I  die  than  yield  to  such  vile  serv- 
ice," said  he. 

He  did  not  know  how  soon  his  protestations 
would  be  put  to  the  test. 

54 


One  night — it  was  a  week  or  two  after  Myles 
had  come  to  Devlen — Blunt  was  called  to  attend 
the  Earl  at  livery.  The  livery  was  the  last  meal  of 
the  day,  and  was  served  with  great  pomp  and  cer- 
emony about  nine  o'clock  at  night  to  the  head  of 
the  house  as  he  lay  in  bed.  Curfew  had  not  yet 
rung,  and  the  lads  in  the  squires'  quarters  were 
still  wrestling  and  sparring  and  romping  boister- 
ously in  and  out  around  the  long  row  of  rude  cots 
in  the  great  dormitory  as  they  made  ready  for  the 
night.  Six  or  eight  flaring  links  in  wrought-iron 
brackets  that  stood  out  from  the  wall  threw  a 
great  ruddy  glare  through  the  barrack-like  room — 
a  light  of  all  others  to  romp  by.  Myles  and  Gas- 
coyne  were  engaged  in  defending  the  passage-way 
between  their  two  cots  against  the  attack  of  three 
other  lads,  and  Myles  held  his  sheepskin  coverlet 
rolled  up  into  a  ball  and  balanced  in  his  hand, 
ready  for  launching  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  oth- 
ers so  soon  as  it  should  rise  from  behind  the  shel- 
ter of  a  cot.  Just  then  Walter  Blunt,  dressed  with 
more  than  usual  care,  passed  by  on  his  way  to  the 
Earl's  house.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  and  said, 
"Mayhaps  I  will  not  be  in  until  late  to-night.  Thou 
and  Falworth,  Gascoyne,  may  fetch  water  to- 
morrow." 

Then  he  was  gone.  Myles  stood  staring  after  his 
retreating  figure  with  eyes  open  and  mouth  agape, 

55 


still  holding  the  ball  of  sheepskin  balanced  in  his 
hand.  Gascoyne  burst  into  a  helpless  laugh  at  his 
blank,  stupefied  face,  but  the  next  moment  he  laid 
his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

"Myles,"  he  said,  "thou  wilt  not  make  trouble, 
wilt  thou?" 

Myles  made  no  answer.  He  flung  down  his 
sheepskin  and  sat  him  gloomily  down  upon  the 
side  of  the  cot. 

"I  said  that  I  would  sooner  die  than  fetch  water 
for  them,"  said  he. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Gascoyne;  "but  that  was  spoken 
in  haste." 

Myles  said  nothing,  but  shook  his  head. 

But,  after  all,  circumstances  shape  themselves. 
The  next  morning  when  he  rose  up  through  the 
dark  waters  of  sleep  it  was  to  feel  some  one  shak- 
ing him  violently  by  the  shoulder. 

"Come!"  cried  Gascoyne,  as  Myles  opened  his 
eyes — "come,  time  passeth,  and  we  are  late." 

Myles,  bewildered  with  his  sudden  awakening, 
and  still  fuddled  with  the  fumes  of  sleep,  huddled 
into  his  doublet  and  hose,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
was  doing;  tying  a  point  here  and  a  point  there, 
and  slipping  his  feet  into  his  shoes.  Then  he  hur- 
ried after  Gascoyne,  frowzy,  half-dressed,  and 
even  yet  only  half-awake.  It  was  not  until  he  was 


56 


fairly  out  into  the  fresh  air  and  saw  Gascoyne  fill- 
ing the  three  leathern  buckets  at  the  tank,  that  he 
fully  awakened  to  the  fact  that  he  was  actually 
doing  that  hateful  service  for  the  bachelors  which 
he  had  protested  he  would  sooner  die  than  render. 

The  sun  was  jtist  rising,  gilding  the  crown  of  the 
donjon-keep  with  a  flame  of  ruddy  light.  Below, 
among  the  lesser  buildings,  the  day  was  still  gray 
and  misty.  Only  an  occasional  noise  broke  the  si- 
lence of  the  early  morning:  a  cough  from  one  of 
the  rooms;  the  rattle  of  a  pot  or  a  pan,  stirred  by 
some  sleepy  scullion;  the  clapping  of  a  door  or  a 
shutter,  and  now  and  then  the  crowing  of  a  cock 
back  of  the  long  row  of  stables — all  sounding  loud 
and  startling  in  the  fresh  dewy  stillness. 

"Thou  hast  betrayed  me,"  said  Myles,  harshly, 
breaking  the  silence  at  last.  "I  knew  not  what  I 
was  doing,  or  else  I  would  never  have  come  hither. 
Ne'theless,  even  though  I  be  come,  I  will  not  carry 
the  water  for  them." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Gascoyne,  tartly.  "An  thou  canst 
not  stomach  it,  let  be,  and  I  will  e'en  carry  all 
three  myself.  It  will  make  me  two  journeys,  but, 
thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  so  proud  as  to  wish  to  get 
me  hard  knocks  for  naught."  So  saying,  he  picked 
up  two  of  the  buckets  and  started  away  across  the 
court  for  the  dormitory. 

57 


Then  Myles,  with  a  lowering  face,  snatched  up 
the  third,  and,  hurrying  after,  gave  him  his  hand 
with  the  extra  pail.  So  it  was  that  he  came  to  do 
service,  after  all. 

"Why  tarried  ye  so  long?"  said  one  of  the  older 
bachelors,  roughly,  as  the  two  lads  emptied  the 
water  into  the  wooden  trough.  He  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  cot,  blowzed  and  untrussed,  with  his  long 
hair  tumbled  and  disordered. 

His  dictatorial  tone  stung  Myles  to  fury.  "We 
tarried  no  longer  than  need  be,"  answered  he,  sav- 
agely. "Have  we  wings  to  fly  withal  at  your  bid- 
ding?" 

He  spoke  so  loudly  that  all  in  the  room  heard 
him;  the  younger  squires  who  were  dressing  stared 
in  blank  amazement,  and  Blunt  sat  up  suddenly  in 
his  cot. 

"Why,  how  now?"  he  cried.  "Answerest  thou 
back  thy  betters  so  pertly,  sirrah?  By  my  soul,  I 
have  a  mind  to  crack  thy  head  with  this  clog  for 
thy  unruly  talk." 

He  glared  at  Myles  as  he  spoke,  and  Myles 
glared  back  again  with  right  good-will.  Matters 
might  have  come  to  a  crisis,  only  that  Gascoyne 
and  Wilkes  dragged  their  friend  away  before  he 
had  opportunity  to  answer. 

"An  ill-conditioned  knave  as  ever  I  did  see," 


58 


growled  Blunt,  glaring  after  him. 

"Myles,  Myles,"  said  Gascoyne,  almost  despair- 
ingly, "why  wilt  thou  breed  such  mischief  for  thy- 
self? Seest  thou  not  thou  hast  got  thee  the  ill-will 
of  every  one  of  the  bachelors,  from  Wat  Blunt  to 
Robin  de  Ramsey?" 

"I  care  not,"  said  Myles,  fiercely,  recurring  to 
his  grievance.  "Heard  ye  not  how  the  dogs  up- 
braided me  before  the  whole  room?  That  Blunt 
called  me  an  ill-conditioned  knave." 

"Marry!"  said  Gascoyne,  laughing,  "and  so  thou 
art." 

Thus  it  is  that  boldness  may  breed  one  enemies 
as  well  as  gain  one  friends.  My  own  notion  is  that 
one's  enemies  are  more  quick  to  act  than  one's 
friends. 


59 


CHAPTER  8 


B 


/VERY  ONE  knows  the  disagreeable,  lurking 
discomfort  that  follows  a  quarrel — a  discomfort 
that  imbitters  the  very  taste  of  life  for  the  time 
being.  Such  was  the  dull  distaste  that  Myles  felt 
that  morning  after  what  had  passed  in  the  dormi- 
tory. Every  one  in  the  proximity  of  such  an  open 
quarrel  feels  a  reflected  constraint,  and  in  Myles's 
mind  was  a  disagreeable  doubt  whether  that  con- 
straint meant  disapproval  of  him  or  of  his  late 
enemies. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Gascoyne  added  the  last 
bitter  twang  to  his  unpleasant  feelings  when,  half 
an  hour  later,  they  marched  with  the  others  to 
chapel. 

"Why  dost  thou  breed  such  trouble  for  thyself, 

60 


Myles?"  said  he,  recurring  to  what  he  had  already 
said.  "Is  it  not  foolish  for  thee  to  come  hither  to 
this  place,  and  then  not  submit  to  the  ways  there- 
of, as  the  rest  of  us  do?" 

"Thou  talkest  not  like  a  true  friend  to  chide  me 
thus,"  said  Myles,  sullenly;  and  he  withdrew  his 
arm  from  his  friend's. 

"Marry,  come  up!  '  said  Gascoyne;  "an  I  were 
not  thy  friend,  I  would  let  thee  jog  thine  own  way. 
It  aches  not  my  bones  to  have  thine  drubbed." 

Just  then  they  entered  the  chapel,  and  words 
that  might  have  led  to  a  quarrel  were  brought  to  a 
close. 

Myles  was  not  slow  to  see  that  he  had  the  ill 
will  of  the  head  of  their  company.  That  morning 
in  the  armory  he  had  occasion  to  ask  some  ques- 
tion of  Blunt;  the  head  squire  stared  coldly  at  him 
for  a  moment,  gave  him  a  short,  gruff  answer,  and 
then,  turning  his  back  abruptly,  began  talking 
with  one  of  the  other  bachelors.  Myles  flushed  hot 
at  the  other's  insulting  manner,  and  looked 
quickly  around  to  see  if  any  of  the  others  had  ob- 
served what  had  passed.  It  was  a  comfort  to  him  to 
see  that  all  were  too  busy  arming  themselves  to 
think  of  anything  else;  nevertheless,  his  face  was 
very  lowering  as  he  turned  away. 

"Some  day  I  will  show  him  that  I  am  as  good  a 

61 


man  as  he,"  he  muttered  to  himself.   "An  evil- 
hearted  dog  to  put  shame  upon  me!" 

The  storm  was  brewing  and  ready  to  break- 


That  day  was  exceptionally  hot  and  close,  and 
permission  had  been  asked  by  and  granted  to 
those  squires  not  on  duty  to  go  down  to  the  river 
for  a  bath  after  exercise  at  the  pels.  But  as  Myles 
replaced  his  arms  in  the  rack,  a  little  page  came 
with  a  bidding  to  come  to  Sir  James  in  his  office. 

"Look  now,"  said  Myles,  "here  is  just  my  ill- 
fortune.  Why  might  he  not  have  waited  an  hour 
longer  rather  than  cause  me  to  miss  going  with 
ye?" 

"Nay,"  said  Gascoyne,  "let  not  that  grieve  thee, 
Myles.  Wilkes  and  I  will  wait  for  thee  in  the 
dormitory — will  we  not,  Edmund?  Make  thou 
haste  and  go  to  Sir  James." 

Sir  James  was  sitting  at  the  table  studying  over 
a  scroll  of  parchment,  when  Myles  entered  his 
office  and  stood  before  him  at  the  table. 

"Well,  boy,"  said  he,  laying  aside  the  parchment 
and  looking  up  at  the  lad,  "I  have  tried  thee  fairly 
for  these  few  days,  and  may  say  that  I  have  found 
thee  worthy  to  be  entered  upon  the  rolls  as  esquire 
of  the  body." 

"I  give  thee  thanks,  sir,"  said  Myles. 

62 


The  knight  nodded  his  head  in  acknowledge- 
ment, but  did  not  at  once  give  the  word  of  dis- 
missal that  Myles  had  expected.  "Dost  mean  to 
write  thee  a  letter  home  soon?"  said  he,  suddenly. 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  gaping  in  great  wonderment 
at  the  strangeness  of  the  question. 

"Then  when  thou  dost  so  write,"  said  Sir  James, 
"give  thou  my  deep  regards  to  thy  father."  Then 
he  continued,  after  a  brief  pause.  "Him  did  I 
know  well  in  times  gone  by,  and  we  were  right 
true  friends  in  hearty  love,  and  for  his  sake  I 
would  befriend  thee — that  is,  in  so  much  as  is 
fitting." 

"Sir,"  said  Myles;  but  Sir  James  held  up  his 
hand,  and  he  stopped  short  in  his  thanks. 

"But,  boy,"  said  he,  "that  which  I  sent  for  thee 
for  to  tell  thee  was  of  more  import  than  these. 
Dost  thou  know  that  thy  father  is  an  attainted 
outlaw?" 

"Nay,"  cried  Myles,  his  cheeks  blazing  up  as  red 
as  fire;  "who  sayeth  that  of  him  lieth  in  his  teeth." 

"Thou  dost  mistake  me,"  said  Sir  James, 
quietly.  "It  is  sometimes  no  shame  to  be  outlawed 
and  banned.  Had  it  been  so,  I  would  not  have  told 
thee  thereof,  nor  have  bidden  thee  send  my  true 
love  to  thy  father,  as  I  did  but  now.  But,  boy,  cer- 
tes  he  standest  continually  in  great  danger — 
greater  than  thou  wottest  of.  Were  it  known  where 

63 


he  lieth  hid,  it  might  be  to  his  undoing  and  utter 
ruin.  Methought  that  belike  thou  mightest  not 
know  that;  and  so  I  sent  for  thee  for  to  tell  thee 
that  it  behoovest  thee  to  say  not  one  single  word 
concerning  him  to  any  of  these  new  friends  of 
thine,  nor  who  he  is,  nor  what  he  is." 

"But  how  came  my  father  to  be  so  banned?" 
said  Myles,  in  a  constrained  and  husky  voice,  and 
after  a  long  time  of  silence. 

"That  I  may  not  tell  thee  just  now,"  said  the  old 
knight,  "only  this — that  I  have  been  bidden  to 
make  it  known  to  thee  that  thy  father  hath  an 
enemy  full  as  powerful  as  my  Lord  the  Earl  him- 
self, and  that  through  that  enemy  all  his  ill-fortune 
— his  blindness  and  everything — hath  come. 
Moreover,  did  this  enemy  know  where  thy  father 
lieth,  he  would  slay  him  right  speedily." 

"Sir,"  cried  Myles,  violently  smiting  his  open 
palm  upon  the  table,  "tell  me  who  this  man  is,  and 
I  will  kill  him!" 

Sir  James  smiled  grimly.  "Thou  talkest  like  a 
boy,"  said  he.  "Wait  until  thou  art  grown  to  be  a 
man.  Mayhap  then  thou  mayst  repent  thee  of 
these  bold  words,  for  one  time  this  enemy  of  thy 
father's  was  reckoned  the  foremost  knight  in  En- 
gland, and  he  is  now  the  King's  dear  friend  and  a 
great  lord." 

64 


"But,"  said  Myles,  after  another  long  time  of 
heavy  silence,  "will  not  my  Lord  then  befriend  me 
for  the  sake  of  my  father,  who  was  one  time  his 
dear  comrade?" 

Sir  James  shook  his  head.  "It  may  not  be,"  said 
he.  "Neither  thou  nor  thy  father  must  look  for 
open  favor  from  the  Earl.  An  he  befriended  Fal- 
worth,  and  it  came  to  be  known  that  he  had  given 
him  aid  or  succor,  it  might  belike  be  to  his  own 
undoing.  No,  boy;  thou  must  not  even  look  to  be 
taken  into  the  household  to  serve  with  gentlemen 
as  the  other  squires  do  serve,  but  must  even  live 
thine  own  life  here  and  fight  thine  own  way." 

Myles's  eyes  blazed.  "Then,"  cried  he,  fiercely, 
"it  is  shame  and  attaint  upon  my  Lord  the  Earl, 
and  cowardice  as  well,  and  never  will  I  ask  favor 
of  him  who  is  so  untrue  a  friend  as  to  turn  his  back 
upon  a  comrade  in  trouble  as  he  turneth  his  back 
upon  my  father." 

"Thou  art  a  foolish  boy,"  said  Sir  James  with  a 
bitter  smile,  "and  knowest  naught  of  the  world.  An 
thou  wouldst  look  for  man  to  befriend  man  to  his 
own  danger,  thou  must  look  elsewhere  than  on 
this  earth.  Was  I  not  one  time  Mackworth's  dear 
friend  as  well  as  thy  father?  It  could  cost  him 
naught  to  honor  me,  and  here  am  I  fallen  to  be  a 
teacher  of  boys.  Go  to!  thou  art  a  fool." 

65 


Then,  after  a  little  pause  of  brooding  silence,  he 
went  on  to  say  that  the  Earl  was  no  better  or 
worse  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  That  men  of  his 
position  had  many  jealous  enemies,  ever  seeking 
their  ruin,  and  that  such  must  look  first  of  all  each 
to  himself,  or  else  be  certainly  ruined,  and  drag 
down  others  in  that  ruin.  Myles  was  silenced,  but 
the  bitterness  had  entered  his  heart,  and  abided 
with  him  for  many  a  day  afterwards. 

Perhaps  Sir  James  read  his  feelings  in  his  frank 
face,  for  he  sat  looking  curiously  at  him,  twirling 
his  grizzled  mustache  the  while.  "Thou  art  like  to 
have  hard  knocks  of  it,  lad,  ere  thou  hast  gotten 
thee  safe  through  the  world,"  said  he,  with  more 
kindness  in  his  harsh  voice  than  was  usual.  "But 
get  thee  not  into  fights  before  thy  time."  Then  he 
charged  the  boy  very  seriously  to  live  at  peace 
with  his  fellow-squires,  and  for  his  father's  sake  as 
well  as  his  own  to  enter  into  none  of  the  broils  that 
were  so  frequent  in  their  quarters. 

It  was  with  this  special  admonition  against 
brawling  that  Myles  was  dismissed,  to  enter,  be- 
fore five  minutes  had  passed,  into  the  first  really 
great  fight  of  his  life. 

Besides  Gascoyne  and  Wilkes,  he  found  gath- 
ered in  the  dormitory  six  or  eight  of  the  company 

66 


of  squires  who  were  to  serve  that  day  upon  house- 
hold duty;  among  others,  Walter  Blunt  and  three 
other  bachelors,  who  were  changing  their  coarse 
service  clothes  for  others  more  fit  for  the  house- 
hold. 

"Why  didst  thou  tarry  so  long,  Myles?"  said 
Gascoyne,  as  he  entered.  "Methought  thou  wert 
never  coming." 

"Where  goest  thou,  Falworth?"  called  Blunt 
from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  he  was 
lacing  his  doublet. 

Just  now  Myles  had  no  heart  in  the  swimming 
or  sport  of  any  sort,  but  he  answered,  shortly,  "I 
go  to  the  river  to  swim." 

"Nay,"  said  Blunt,  "thou  goest  not  forth  from 
the  castle  to-day.  Hast  thou  forgot  how  thou  didst 
answer  me  back  about  fetching  the  water  this 
morning?  This  day  thou  must  do  penance,  so  go 
thou  straight  to  the  armory  and  scour  thou  up  my 
breastplate." 

From  the  time  he  had  arisen  that  morning  ev- 
erything had  gone  wrong  with  Myles.  He  had  felt 
himself  already  outrated  in  rendering  service  to 
the  bachelors,  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  head  of 
the  esquires,  he  had  nearly  quarrelled  with  Gas- 
coyne, and  then  had  come  the  bitterest  and  worst 
of  all,  the  knowledge  that  his  father  was  an  out- 

67 


law,  and  that  the  Earl  would  not  stretch  out  a 
hand  to  aid  him  or  to  give  him  any  countenance. 
Blunt's  words  brought  the  last  bitter  cut  to  his 
heart,  and  they  stung  him  to  fury.  For  a  while  he 
could  not  answer,  but  stood  glaring  with  a  face 
fairly  convulsed  with  passion  at  the  young  man, 
who  continued  his  toilet,  unconscious  of  the  wrath 
of  the  new  recruit. 

Gascoyne  and  Wilkes,  accepting  Myles's  pun- 
ishment as  a  thing  of  course,  were  about  to  leave 
the  dormitory  when  Myles  checked  them. 

"Stop,  Francis!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "Thinkest 
thou  that  I  will  stay  behind  to  do  yon  dog's  dirty 
work?  No;  I  go  with  ye." 

A  moment  or  two  of  dumb,  silent  amazement 
followed  his  bold  words;  then  Blunt  cried,  "Art 
thou  mad?" 

"Nay,"  answered  Myles  in  the  same  hoarse 
voice,  "I  am  not  mad.  I  tell  thee  a  better  man  than 
thou  shouldst  not  stay  me  from  going  an  I  list  to 
go." 

"I  will  break  thy  cockerel  head  for  that  speech," 
said  Blunt,  furiously.  He  stooped  as  he  spoke,  and 
picked  up  a  heavy  clog  that  lay  at  his  feet. 

It  was  no  insignificant  weapon  either.  The  shoes 
of  those  days  were  sometimes  made  of  cloth,  and 
had  long  pointed  toes  stuffed  with  tow  or  wool.  In 
muddy  weather  thick  heavy  clogs  or  wooden  soles 

68 


were  strapped,  like  a  skate,  to  the  bottom  of  the 
foot.  That  clog  which  Blunt  had  seized  was  per- 
haps eighteen  or  twenty  inches  long,  two  or  two 
and  a  half  inches  thick  at  the  heel,  tapering  to  a 
point  at  the  toe.  As  the  older  lad  advanced,  Gas- 
coyne  stepped  between  him  and  his  victim. 

"Do  not  harm  him.  Blunt,"  he  pleaded.  "Bear 
thou  in  mind  how  new-come  he  is  among  us.  He 
knoweth  not  our  ways  as  yet." 

"Stand  thou  back,  Gascoyne,"  said  Blunt, 
harshly,  as  he  thrust  him  aside.  "I  will  teach  him 
our  ways  so  that  he  will  not  soon  forget  them." 

Close  to  Myles's  feet  was  another  clog  like  that 
one  which  Blunt  held.  He  snatched  it  up,  and  set 
his  back  against  the  wall,  with  a  white  face  and 
a  heart  beating  heavily  and  tumultuously,  but 
with  courage  steeled  to  meet  the  coming  encoun- 
ter. There  was  a  hard,  grim  look  in  his  blue  eyes 
that,  for  a  moment  perhaps,  quelled  the  elder  lad. 
He  hesitated.  "Tom!  Wat!  Ned!"  he  called  to  the 
other  bachelors,  "come  hither,  and  lend  me  a  hand 
with  this  knave." 

"An  ye  come  nigh  me,"  panted  Myles,  "I  will 
brain  the  first  within  reach." 

Then  Gascoyne  dodged  behind  the  others,  and, 
without  being  seen,  slipped  out  of  the  room  for 
help. 

The  battle  that  followed  was  quick,  sharp,  and 

69 


short.  As  Blunt  strode  forward,  Myles  struck,  and 
struck  with  might  and  main,  but  he  was  too  ex- 
cited to  deliver  his  blow  with  calculation.  Blunt 
parried  it  with  the  clog  he  held,  and  the  next  in- 
stant, dropping  his  weapon,  gripped  Myles  tight 
about  the  body,  pinning  his  arms  to  his  sides. 

Myles  also  dropped  the  clog  he  held,  and, 
wrenching  out  his  right  arm  with  a  sudden  heave, 
struck  Blunt  full  in  the  face,  and  then  with  an- 
other blow  sent  him  staggering  back.  It  all  passed 
in  an  instant;  the  next  the  three  other  bachelors 
were  upon  him,  catching  him  by  the  body,  the 
arms,  the  legs.  For  a  moment  or  two  they  swayed 
and  stumbled  hither  and  thither,  and  then  down 
they  fell  in  a  struggling  heap. 

Myles  fought  like  a  wild-cat,  kicking,  strug- 
gling, scratching;  striking  with  elbows  and  fists. 
He  caught  one  of  the  three  by  his  collar,  and  tore 
his  jacket  open  from  the  neck  to  the  waist;  he 
drove  his  foot  into  the  pit  of  the  stomach  of  an- 
other, and  knocked  him  breathless.  The  other  lads 
not  in  the  fight  stood  upon  the  benches  and  the 
beds  around,  but  such  was  the  awe  inspired  by  the 
prestige  of  the  bachelors  that  not  one  of  them 
dared  to  lend  hand  to  help  him,  and  so  Myles 
fought  his  fierce  battle  alone. 

But   four    to   one   were   odds    too   great,    and 

70 


At  last  they  had  the  poor  boy  down. 


though  Myles  struggled  as  fiercely  as  ever,  by-and- 
by  it  was  with  less  and  less  resistance. 

Blunt  had  picked  up  the  clog  he  had  dropped 
when  he  first  attacked  the  lad,  and  now  stood  over 
the  struggling  heap,  white  with  rage,  the  blood 
running  from  his  lip,  cut  and  puffed  where  Myles 
had  struck  him,  and  murder  looking  out  from  his 
face,  if  ever  it  looked  out  of  the  face  of  any  mortal 
being. 

"Hold  him  a  little,"  said  he,  fiercely,  "and  I  will 
still  him  for  you." 

Even  yet  it  was  no  easy  matter  for  the  others  to 
do  his  bidding,  but  presently  he  got  his  chance 
and  struck  a  heavy,  cruel  blow  at  Myles's  head. 
Myles  only  partly  warded  it  with  his  arm.  Hith- 
erto he  had  fought  in  silence,  now  he  gave  a  harsh 
cry. 

"Holy  Saints!"  cried  Edmund  Wilkes.  "They 
will  kill  him." 

Blunt  struck  two  more  blows,  both  of  them 
upon  the  body,  and  then  at  last  they  had  the  poor 
boy  down,  with  his  face  upon  the  ground  and  his 
arms  pinned  to  his  sides,  and  Blimt,  bracing  him- 
self for  the  stroke,  with  a  grin  of  rage  raised  a 
heavy  clog  for  one  terrible  blow  that  should  finish 
the  fight. 


71 


CHAPTER  9 

ow  NOW,  messieurs?"  said  a  harsh  voice, 
that  fell  upon  the  turmoil  like  a  thunder-clap,  and 
there  stood  Sir  James  Lee.  Instantly  the  struggle 
ceased,  and  the  combatants  scrambled  to  their 
feet. 

The  older  lads  stood  silent  before  their  chief, 
but  Myles  was  deaf  and  blind  and  mad  with  pas- 
sion, he  knew  not  where  he  stood  or  what  he  said 
or  did.  White  as  death,  he  stood  for  a  while  glar- 
ing about  him,  catching  his  breath  convulsively. 
Then  he  screamed  hoarsely. 

"Who  struck  me?  Who  struck  me  when  I  was 
down?  I  will  have  his  blood  that  struck  me!"  He 
caught  sight  of  Blunt.  "It  was  he  that  struck  me!" 
he  cried.  "Thou  foul  traitor!  thou  coward!"  and 
thereupon  leaped  at  his  enemy  like  a  wild-cat. 

72 


"Stop!"  cried  Sir  James  Lee,  clutching  him  by 
the  arm. 

Myles  was  too  blinded  by  his  fury  to  see  who  it 
was  that  held  him.  "I  will  not  stop!"  he  cried, 
struggling  and  striking  at  the  knight.  "Let  me  go! 
I  will  have  his  life  that  struck  me  when  I  was 
down!" 

The  next  moment  he  found  himself  pinned 
close  against  the  wall,  and  then,  as  though  his  sight 
came  back,  he  saw  the  grim  face  of  the  old  one- 
eyed  knight  looking  into  his. 

"Dost  thou  know  who  I  am?"  said  a  stern,  harsh 
voice. 

Instantly  Myles  ceased  struggling,  and  his  arms 
fell  at  his  side.  "Aye,"  he  said,  in  a  gasping  voice, 
"I  know  thee."  He  swallowed  spasmodically  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then,  in  the  sudden  revulsion 
of  feeling,  burst  out  sobbing  convulsively. 

Sir  James  marched  the  two  off  to  his  office,  he 
himself  walking  between  them,  holding  an  arm  of 
each,  the  other  lads  following  behind,  awe-struck 
and  silent.  Entering  the  office.  Sir  James  shut  the 
door  behind  him,  leaving  the  group  of  squires 
clustered  outside  about  the  stone  steps,  speculat- 
ing in  whispers  as  to  what  would  be  the  outcome 
of  the  matter. 

After  Sir  James  had  seated  himself,   the   two 

73 


standing  facing  him,  he  regarded  them  for  a  while 
in  silence.  "How  now,  Walter  Blunt,"  said  he  at 
last,  "what  is  to  do?" 

"Why,  this,"  said  Blunt,  wiping  his  bleeding  lip. 
"That  fellow,  Myles  Falworth,  hath  been  breeding 
mutiny  and  revolt  ever  sin  he  came  hither  among 
us,  and  because  he  was  thus  mutinous  I  would 
punish  him  therefor." 

"In  that  thou  liest!"  burst  out  Myles.  "Never 
have  I  been  mutinous  in  my  life." 

"Be  silent,  sir,"  said  Sir  James,  sternly.  "I  will 
hear  thee  anon." 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  with  his  lips  twitching  and 
writhing,  "I  will  not  be  silent.  I  am  friendless  here, 
and  ye  are  all  against  me,  but  I  will  not  be  silent, 
and  brook  to  have  lies  spoken  of  me." 

Even  Blunt  stood  aghast  at  Myles's  boldness. 
Never  had  he  heard  any  one  so  speak  to  Sir  James 
before.  He  did  not  dare  for  the  moment  even  to 
look  up.  Second  after  second  of  dead  stillness 
passed,  while  Sir  James  sat  looking  at  Myles  with 
a  stern,  terrifying  calmness  that  chilled  him  in 
spite  of  the  heat  of  his  passion. 

"Sir,"  said  the  old  man  at  last,  in  a  hard,  quiet 
voice,  "thou  dost  know  naught  of  rules  and  laws  of 
such  a  place  as  this.  Nevertheless,  it  is  time  for 
thee  to  learn  them.  So  I  will  tell  thee  now  that  if 


74 


thou  openest  thy  lips  to  say  only  one  single  word 
more  except  at  my  bidding,  I  will  send  thee  to  the 
black  vaidt  of  the  donjon  to  cool  thy  hot  spirits  on 
bread  and  water  for  a  week."  There  was  something 
in  the  measured  quietness  of  the  old  knight's  tone 
that  quelled  Myles  utterly  and  entirely.  A  little 
space  of  silence  followed.  "Now,  then.  Blunt,"  said 
Sir  James,  turning  to  the  bachelor,  "tell  me  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  this  business  without  any  more 
underdealing." 

This  time  Blunt's  story,  though  naturally  preju- 
diced in  his  own  favor,  was  fairly  true.  Then 
Myles  told  his  side  of  the  case,  the  old  knight  lis- 
tening attentively. 

"Why,  how  now.  Blunt,"  said  Sir  James,  when 
Myles  had  ended,  "I  myself  gave  the  lads  leave  to 
go  to  the  river  to  bathe.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou 
forbid  one  of  them?" 

"I  did  it  but  to  punish  this  fellow  for  his  mu- 
tiny," said  the  bachelor.  "Methought  we  at  their 
head  were  to  have  oversight  concerning  them." 

"So  ye  are,"  said  the  knight;  "but  only  to  a  de- 
gree. Ere  ye  take  it  upon  ye  to  gainsay  any  of  my 
orders  or  permits,  come  ye  first  to  me.  Dost  thou 
understand?" 

"Aye,"  answered  Blunt,  sullenly. 

"So  be  it,  and  now  get  thee  gone,"  said  the 

75 


knight;  "and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  beating  out 
brains  with  wooden  clogs.  An  ye  fight  your  battles, 
let  there  not  be  murder  in  them.  This  is  twice  that 
the  like  hath  happed;  gin  I  hear  more  of  such 
doings — "  He  did  utter  his  threat,  but  stopped 
short,  and  fixed  his  one  eye  sternly  upon  the  head 
squire.  "Now  shake  hands,  and  be  ye  friends,"  said 
he,  abruptly. 

Blunt  made  a  motion  to  obey,  but  Myles  put  his 
hand  behind  him. 

"Nay,  I  shake  not  hands  with  any  one  who 
struck  me  while  I  was  down." 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  knight,  grimly.  "Now  thou 
mayst  go.  Blunt.  Thou,  Falworth,  stay;  I  would 
bespeak  thee  further." 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  when  the  elder  lad  had  left 
them,  "why  wilt  thou  not  serve  these  bachelors  as 
the  other  squires  do?  Such  is  the  custom  here. 
Why  wilt  thou  not  obey  it?" 

"Because,"  said  Myles,  "I  cannot  stomach  it,  and 
they  shall  not  make  me  serve  them.  An  thou  bid 
me  do  it,  sir,  I  will  do  it;  but  not  at  their  com- 
mand." 

"Nay,"  said  the  knight,  "I  do  not  bid  thee  do 
them  service.  That  lieth  with  thee,  to  render  or 
not,  as  thou  seest  fit.  But  how  canst  thou  hope  to 
fight  single-handed  against  the  commands  of  a 
dozen  lads  all  older  and  mightier  than  thou?" 

76 


"I  know  not,"  said  Myles;  "but  were  they  an 
hundred,  instead  of  thirteen,  they  should  not  make 
me  serve  them." 

"Thou  art  a  fool!"  said  the  old  knight,  smiling 
faintly,  "for  that  be'st  not  courage,  but  folly. 
When  one  setteth  about  righting  a  wrong,  one 
driveth  not  full  head  against  it,  for  in  so  doing  one 
getteth  naught  bvU  hard  knocks.  Nay,  go  deftly 
about  it,  and  then,  when  the  time  is  ripe,  strike  the 
blow.  Now  our  beloved  King  Henry,  when  he  was 
the  Earl  of  Derby,  what  could  he  have  gained  had 
he  stood  so  against  the  old  King  Richard,  brooking 
the  King  face  to  face?  I  tell  thee  he  would  have 
been  knocked  on  the  head  as  thou  wert  like  to 
have  been  this  day.  Now  were  I  thee,  and  had  to 
fight  a  fight  against  odds,  I  would  first  get  me 
friends  behind  me,  and  then — "  He  stopped  short, 
but  Myles  understood  him  well  enough. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  with  a  gulp,  "I  do  thank  thee  for 
thy  friendship,  and  ask  thy  pardon  for  doing  as  I 
did  anon." 

"I  grant  thee  pardon,"  said  the  knight,  "but  tell 
thee  plainly,  an  thou  dost  face  me  so  again,  I  will 
truly  send  thee  to  the  black  cell  for  a  week.  Now 
get  thee  away." 

All  the  other  lads  were  gone  when  Myles  came 
forth,  save  only  the  faithful  Gascoyne,  who  sacri- 

77 


ficed  his  bath  that  day  to  stay  with  his  friend; 
and  perhaps  that  little  act  of  self-denial  moved 
Myles  more  than  many  a  great  thing  might  have 
done. 

"It  was  right  kind  of  thee,  Francis,"  said  he,  lay- 
ing his  hand  affectionately  on  his  friend's  shoul- 
der. "I  know  not  why  thou  lovest  me  so." 

"Why,  for  one  thing,  this  matter,"  answered  his 
friend;  "because  methinks  thou  art  the  best  fighter 
and  the  bravest  one  of  all  of  us  squires." 

Myles  laughed.  Nevertheless  Gascoyne's  words 
were  a  soothing  balm  for  much  that  had  happened 
that  day.  "I  will  fight  me  no  more  just  now,"  said 
he;  and  then  he  told  his  friend  all  that  Sir  James 
had  advised  about  biding  his  time. 

Gascoyne  blew  a  long  whistle.  "Beshrew  me!" 
quoth  he,  "but  methinks  old  Bruin  is  on  thy  side 
of  the  quarrel,  Myles.  An  that  be  so,  I  am  with 
thee  also,  and  others  that  I  can  name  as  well." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Myles.  "Then  am  I  content  to 
abide  the  time  when  we  may  become  strong 
enough  to  stand  against  them." 


78 


CHAPTER  10 


P> 


'erhaps  there  is  nothing  more  delightful  in 
the  romance  of  boyhood  than  the  finding  of  some 
secret  hiding-place  whither  a  body  may  creep 
away  from  the  bustle  of  the  world's  life,  to  nestle 
in  quietness  for  an  hour  or  two.  More  especially  is 
such  delightful  if  it  happen  that,  by  peeping  from 
out  it,  one  may  look  down  upon  the  bustling  mat- 
ters of  busy  every-day  life,  while  one  lies  snugly 
hidden  away  unseen  by  any,  as  though  one  were 
in  some  strange  invisible  world  of  one's  own. 

Such  a  hiding-place  as  would  have  filled  the 
heart  of  almost  any  boy  with  sweet  delight  Myles 
and  Gascoyne  found  one  summer  afternoon.  They 
called  it  their  Eyry,  and  the  name  suited  well  for 
the  roosting-place  of  the  young  hawks  that  rested 
in  its  windy  stillness,  looking  down  upon  the  shift- 

79 


ing  castle  life  in  the  courts  below. 

Behind  the  north  stable,  a  great,  long,  rambling 
building,  thick-walled,  and  black  with  age,  lay  an 
older  part  of  the  castle  than  that  peopled  by  the 
better  class  of  life — a  cluster  of  great  thick  walls, 
rudely  but  strongly  built,  now  the  dwelling-place 
of  stable-lads  and  hinds,  swine  and  poultry.  From 
one  part  of  these  ancient  walls,  and  fronting  an 
inner  court  of  the  castle,  arose  a  tall,  circular, 
heavy-buttressed  tower,  considerably  higher  than 
the  other  buildings,  and  so  mantled  with  a  dense 
growth  of  aged  ivy  as  to  stand  a  shaft  of  solid 
green.  Above  its  crumbling  crown  circled  hun- 
dreds of  pigeons,  white  and  pied,  clapping  and 
clattering  in  noisy  flight  through  the  sunny  air. 
Several  windows,  some  closed  with  shutters, 
peeped  here  and  there  from  out  the  leaves,  and 
near  the  top  of  the  pile  was  a  row  of  arched  open- 
ings, as  though  of  a  balcony  or  an  airy  gallery. 

Myles  had  more  than  once  felt  an  idle  curiosity 
about  this  tower,  and  one  day,  as  he  and  Gascoyne 
sat  together,  he  pointed  his  finger  and  said,  "What 
is  yon  place?" 

"That,"  answered  Gascoyne,  looking  over  his 
shoulder — "that  they  call  Brutus  Tower,  for  why 
they  do  say  that  Brutus  he  built  it  when  he  came 
hither  to  Britain.  I  believe  not  the  tale  mine  own 


80 


self;  ne'theless,  it  is  marvellous  ancient,  and  old 
Robin-the-Fletcher  telleth  me  that  there  be  stair- 
ways built  in  the  wall  and  passage-ways,  and  a 
maze  wherein  a  body  may  get  lost,  an  he  know 
not  the  way  aright,  and  never  see  the  blessed  light 
of  day  again." 

"Marry,"  said  Myles,  "those  same  be  strange 
sayings.  Who  liveth  there  now?" 

"No  one  liveth  there,"  said  Gascoyne,  "saving 
only  some  of  the  stable  villains,  and  that  half- 
witted goose-herd  who  flung  stones  at  us  yester- 
day when  we  mocked  him  down  in  the  paddock. 
He  and  his  wife  and  those  others  dwell  in  the 
vaults  beneath,  like  rabbits  in  any  warren.  No  one 
else  hath  lived  there  since  Earl  Robert's  day, 
which  belike  was  an  hundred  years  agone.  The 
story  goeth  that  Earl  Robert's  brother — or  step- 
brother— was  murdered  there,  and  some  men  say 
by  the  Earl  himself.  Sin  that  day  it  hath  been  tight 
shut." 

Myles  stared  at  the  tower  for  a  while  in  silence. 
"It  is  a  strange-seeming  place  from  without,"  said 
he,  at  last,  "and  mayhap  it  may  be  even  more 
strange  inside.  Hast  ever  been  within,  Francis?" 

"Nay,"  said  Gascoyne;  "said  I  not  it  hath  been 
fast  locked  since  Earl  Robert's  day?" 

"By  'r  Lady,"  said  Myles,  "an  I  had  lived  here  in 


81 


this  place  so  long  as  thou,  I  wot  I  would  have  been 
within  it  ere  this." 

"Beshrew  me,"  said  Gascoyne,  "but  I  have  never 
thought  of  such  a  matter."  He  turned  and  looked 
at  the  tall  crown  rising  into  the  warm  sunlight 
with  a  new  interest,  for  the  thought  of  entering  it 
smacked  pleasantly  of  adventure.  "How  wouldst 
thou  set  about  getting  within?"  said  he,  presently. 

"Why,  look,"  said  Myles;  "seest  thou  not  yon 
hole  in  the  ivy  branches?  Methinks  there  is  a  win- 
dow at  that  place.  An  I  mistake  not,  it  is  in  reach 
of  the  stable  eaves.  A  body  might  come  up  by  the 
fagot  pile  to  the  roof  of  the  hen-house,  and  then 
by  the  long  stable  to  the  north  stable,  and  so  to 
that  hole." 

Gascoyne  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  Brutus 
Tower,  and  then  suddenly  inquired,  "Wouldst  go 
there?" 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  briefly. 

"So  be  it.  Lead  thou  the  way  in  the  venture,  I 
will  follow  after  thee,"  said  Gascoyne. 

As  Myles  had  said,  the  climbing  from  roof  to 
roof  was  a  matter  easy  enough  to  an  active  pair  of 
lads  like  themselves;  but  when,  by-and-by,  they 
reached  the  wall  of  the  tower  itself,  they  found 
the  hidden  window  much  higher  from  the  roof 
than  they  had  judged  from  below — perhaps  ten  or 


82 


Myles  pushed  the  door  farther  open. 


twelve  feet — and  it  was,  besides,  beyond  the  eaves 
and  out  of  their  reach. 

Myles  looked  up  and  looked  down.  Above  was 
the  bushy  thickness  of  the  ivy,  the  branches  as 
thick  as  a  woman's  wrist,  knotted  and  intertwined; 
below  was  the  stone  pavement  of  a  narrow  inner 
court  between  two  of  the  stable  buildings. 

"Methinks  I  can  climb  to  yon  place,"  said  he. 

"Thou'lt  break  thy  neck  an  thou  tryest,"  said 
Gascoyne,  hastily. 

"Nay,"  quoth  Myles,  "I  trust  not;  but  break  or 
make,  we  get  not  there  without  trying.  So  here 
goeth  for  the  venture." 

"Thou  art  a  hare-brained  knave  as  ever  drew 
breath  of  life,"  quoth  Gascoyne,  "and  will  cause 
me  to  come  to  grief  some  of  these  fine  days.  Ne'- 
theless,  an  thou  be  Jack  Fool  and  lead  the  way,  go, 
and  I  will  be  Tom  Fool  and  follow  anon.  If 
thy  neck  is  worth  so  little,  mine  is  worth  no  more." 

It  was  indeed  a  perilous  climb,  but  that  special 
providence  which  guards  reckless  lads  befriended 
them,  as  it  has  thousands  of  their  kind  before  and 
since.  So,  by  climbing  from  one  knotted,  clinging 
stem  to  another,  they  were  presently  seated  snugly 
in  the  ivied  niche  in  the  window.  It  was  barred 
from  within  by  a  crumbling  shutter,  the  rusty  fas- 
tening of  which,  after  some  little  effort  upon  the 

83 


part  of  the  two,  gave  way,  and  entering  the  nar- 
row opening,  they  found  themselves  in  a  small 
triangular  passage-way,  from  which  a  steep  flight 
of  stone  steps  led  down  through  a  hollow  in  the 
massive  wall  to  the  room  below. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  steps  was  a  heavy  oaken 
door,  which  stood  ajar,  hanging  upon  a  single 
rusty  hinge,  and  from  the  room  within  a  dull,  giay 
light  glimmered  faintly.  Myles  pushed  the  door 
farther  open;  it  creaked  and  grated  horribly  on 
its  rusty  hinge,  and,  as  in  instant  answer  to  the 
discordant  shriek,  came  a  faint  piping  squeaking,  a 
rustling  and  a  pattering  of  soft  footsteps. 

"The  ghosts!"  cried  Gascoyne,  in  a  quavering 
whisper,  and  for  a  moment  Myles  felt  the  chill  of 
goose-flesh  creep  up  and  down  his  spine.  But  the 
next  moment  he  laughed. 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "they  be  rats.  Look  at  yon  fel- 
low, Francis!  Be'st  as  big  as  Mother  Joan's  kitten. 
Give  me  that  stone."  He  flung  it  at  the  rat,  and  it 
flew  clattering  across  the  floor.  There  was  another 
pattering  rustle  of  hundreds  of  feet,  and  then  a 
breathless  silence. 

The  boys  stood  looking  around  them,  and  a 
strange  enough  sight  it  was.  The  room  was  a  per- 
fect circle  of  about  twenty  feet  across,  and  was 
piled  high  with  an  indistinguishable  mass  of  lum- 

84 


ber — rude  tables,  ruder  chairs,  ancient  chests,  bits 
and  remnants  of  cloth  and  sacking  and  leather,  old 
helmets  and  pieces  of  armor  of  a  by-gone  time, 
broken  spears  and  pole-axes,  pots  and  pans  and 
kitchen  furniture  of  all  sorts  and  kinds. 

A  straight  beam  of  sunlight  fell  through  a 
broken  shutter  like  a  bar  of  gold,  and  fell  upon  the 
floor  in  a  long  streak  of  dazzling  light  that  illumi- 
nated the  whole  room  with  a  yellow  glow. 

"By  'r  Lady!"  said  Gascoyne  at  last,  in  a  hushed 
voice,  "here  is  Father  Time's  garret  for  sure.  Didst 
ever  see  the  like,  Myles?  Look  at  yon  arbalist;  sure 
Brutus  himself  used  such  an  one!" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "but  look  at  this  saddle. 
Marry,  here  be'st  a  rat's  nest  in  it." 

Clouds  of  dust  rose  as  they  rummaged  among 
the  mouldering  mass,  setting  them  coughing  and 
sneezing.  Now  and  then  a  great  gray  rat  would 
shoot  out  beneath  their  very  feet,  and  disappear, 
like  a  sudden  shadow,  into  some  hole  or  cranny  in 
the  wall. 

"Come,"  said  Myles  at  last,  brushing  the  dust 
from  his  jacket,  "an  we  tarry  here  longer  we  will 
have  chance  to  see  no  other  sights;  the  sun  is  fall- 
ing low." 

An  arched  stair-way  upon  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room  from  which  they  had  entered  wound 

85 


upward  through  the  wall,  the  stone  steps  being 
lighted  by  narrow  slits  of  windows  cut  through 
the  massive  masonry.  Above  the  room  they  had 
just  left  was  another  of  the  same  shape  and  size, 
but  with  an  oak  floor,  sagging  and  rising  into  hol- 
lows and  hills,  where  the  joist  had  rotted  away 
beneath.  It  was  bare  and  empty,  and  not  even  a 
rat  was  to  be  seen.  Above  was  another  room;  above 
that,  another;  all  the  passages  and  stairways  which 
connected  the  one  story  with  the  other  being  built 
in  the  wall,  which  was,  where  solid,  perhaps  fif- 
teen feet  thick. 

From  the  third  floor  a  straight  flight  of  steps  led 
upward  to  a  closed  door,  from  the  other  side  of 
which  shone  the  dazzling  brightness  of  simlight, 
and  whence  came  a  strange  noise — a  soft  rustling, 
a  melodious  murmur.  The  boys  put  their  shoul- 
ders against  the  door,  which  was  fastened,  and 
pushed  with  might  and  main — once,  twice;  sud- 
denly the  lock  gave  way,  and  out  they  pitched 
headlong  into  a  blaze  of  sunlight.  A  deafening 
clapping  and  uproar  soimded  in  their  ears,  and 
scores  of  pigeons,  suddenly  disturbed,  rose  in 
stormy  flight. 

They  sat  up  and  looked  around  them  in  silent 
wonder.  They  were  in  a  bower  of  leafy  green.  It 
was  the  top  story  of  the  tower,  the  roof  of  which 

86 


had  crumbled  and  toppled  in,  leaving  it  open  to 
the  sky,  with  only  here  and  there  a  slanting  beam 
or  two  supporting  a  portion  of  the  tiled  roof, 
affording  shelter  for  the  nests  of  the  pigeons 
crowded  closely  together.  Over  everything  the  ivy 
had  grown  in  a  mantling  sheet — a  net-work  of 
shimmering  green,  through  which  the  sunlight  fell 
flickering. 

"This  passeth  wonder,"  said  Gascoyne,  at  last 
breaking  the  silence. 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  "I  did  never  see  the  like  in  all 
my  life."  Then,  "Look,  yonder  is  a  room  beyond; 
let  us  see  what  it  is,  Francis." 

Entering  an  arched  door-way,  the  two  found 
themselves  in  a  beautiful  little  vaulted  chapel, 
about  eighteen  feet  long  and  twelve  or  fifteen 
wide.  It  comprised  the  crown  of  one  of  the  large 
massive  buttresses,  and  from  it  opened  the  row 
of  arched  windows  which  could  be  seen  from 
below  through  the  green  shimmering  of  the  ivy 
leaves.  The  boys  pushed  aside  the  trailing  tendrils 
and  looked  out  and  down.  The  whole  castle  lay 
spread  below  them,  with  the  busy  people  uncon- 
sciously intent  upon  the  matters  of  their  daily 
work.  They  could  see  the  gardener,  with  bowed 
back,  patiently  working  among  the  flowers  in  the 
garden,     the    stable-boys    below    grooming    the 

87 


horses,  a  bevy  of  ladies  in  the  privy  garden  play- 
ing at  shuttlecock  with  battledoors  of  wood,  a 
group  of  gentlemen  walking  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  Earl's  house.  They  could  see  the  household 
servants  hurrying  hither  and  thither,  two  little 
scullions  at  fisticuffs,  and  a  kitchen  girl  standing  in 
the  door-way  scratching  her  frowzy  head. 

It  was  all  like  a  puppetshow  of  real  life,  each 
acting  unconsciously  a  part  in  the  play.  The  cool 
wind  came  in  through  the  rustling  leaves  and 
fanned  their  cheeks,  hot  with  the  climb  up  the 
winding  stair-way. 

"We  will  call  it  our  Eyry,"  said  Gascoyne  "and 
we  will  be  the  hawks  that  live  here."  And  that  was 
how  it  got  its  name. 

The  next  day  Myles  had  the  armorer  make  him 
a  score  of  large  spikes,  which  he  and  Gascoyne 
drove  between  the  ivy  branches  and  into  the 
cement  of  the  wall,  and  so  made  a  safe  passage- 
way by  which  to  reach  the  window  niche  in  the 
wall. 


88 


CHAPTER  11 


Z 


HE  TWO  jEriends  kept  the  secret  of  the  Eyry  to 
themselves  for  a  little  while,  now  and  then  visiting 
the  old  tower  to  rummage  among  the  lumber 
stored  in  the  lower  room,  or  to  loiter  away  the 
afternoon  in  the  windy  solitudes  of  the  upper 
heights.  And  in  that  little  time,  when  the  ancient 
keep  was  to  them  a  small  world  unknown  to  any 
but  themselves — a  world  far  away  above  all  the 
dull  matters  of  every-day  life — they  talked  of 
many  things  that  might  else  never  have  been 
known  to  one  another.  Mostly  they  spoke  the 
crude  romantic  thoughts  and  desires  of  boyhood's 
time — chaff  thrown  to  the  wind,  in  which,  how- 
ever, lay  a  few  stray  seeds,  fated  to  fall  to  good 
earth,  and  to  ripen  to  fruition  in  manhood's  day. 
In  the  intimate  talks  of  that  time  Myles  im- 

89 


parted  something  of  his  honest  solidity  to  Gas- 
coyne's  somewhat  weathercock  nature,  and  to 
Myles's  ruder  and  more  uncouth  character  Gas- 
coyne  lent  a  tone  of  his  gentler  manners,  learned 
in  his  pagehood  service  as  attendant  upon  the 
Countess  and  her  ladies. 

In  other  things,  also,  the  character  and  experi- 
ence of  the  one  lad  helped  to  supply  what  was 
lacking  in  the  other.  Myles  was  replete  with  old 
Latin  gestes,  fables,  and  sermons  picked  up  during 
his  school  life,  in  those  intervals  of  his  more  seri- 
ous studies  when  Prior  Edward  had  permitted  him 
to  browse  in  the  greener  pastures  of  the  Gesta 
Romanorum  and  the  Disciplina  Clericalis  of  the 
monastery  library,  and  Gascoyne  was  never  weary 
of  hearing  him  tell  those  marvellous  stories  culled 
from  the  crabbed  Latin  of  the  old  manuscript 
volumes. 

Upon  his  part  Gascoyne  was  full  of  the  lore  of 
the  waiting-room  and  the  antechamber,  and 
Myles,  who  in  all  his  life  had  never  known  a  lady, 
young  or  old,  excepting  his  mother,  was  never 
tired  of  lying  silently  listening  to  Gascoyne's  chat- 
ter of  the  gay  doings  of  the  castle  gentle-life,  in 
which  he  had  taken  part  so  often  in  the  merry 
days  of  his  pagehood. 

"I  do  wonder,"  said  Myles,  quaintly,  "that  thou 

90 


couldst  ever  find  the  courage  to  bespeak  a  young 
maid,  Francis.  Never  did  I  do  so,  nor  ever  could. 
Rather  would  I  face  three  strong  men  than  one 
young  damsel." 

Whereupon  Gascoyne  burst  out  laughing. 
"Marry!"  quoth  he,  "they  be  no  such  terrible 
things,  but  gentle  and  pleasant  spoken,  and  soft 
and  smooth  as  any  cat." 

"No  matter  for  that,"  said  Myles;  "I  would  not 
face  one  such  for  worlds." 

It  was  during  the  short  time  when,  so  to  speak, 
the  two  owned  the  solitude  of  the  Brutus  Tower, 
that  Myles  told  his  friend  of  his  father's  outlawry 
and  of  the  peril  in  which  the  family  stood.  And 
thus  it  was. 

"I  do  marvel,"  said  Gascoyne  one  day,  as  the 
two  lay  stretched  in  the  Eyry,  looking  down  into 
the  castle  court-yard  below — "I  do  marvel,  now 
that  thou  art  'stablished  here  this  month  and  more, 
that  my  Lord  doth  never  have  thee  called  to  ser- 
vice upon  household  duty.  Canst  thou  riddle  me 
why  it  is  so,  Myles?" 

The  subject  was  a  very  sore  one  with  Myles. 
Until  Sir  James  had  told  him  of  the  matter  in  his 
office  that  day  he  had  never  known  that  his  father 
was  attainted  and  outlawed.  He  had  accepted  the 
change  from  their  earlier  state  and  the  bald  pov- 

91 


erty  of  their  life  at  Crosbey-Holt  with  the  easy 
carelessness  of  boyhood,  and  Sir  James's  words 
were  the  first  to  awaken  him  to  a  realization  of  the 
misfortunes  of  the  house  of  Falworth.  His  was  a 
brooding  nature,  and  in  the  three  or  four  weeks 
that  passed  he  had  meditated  so  much  over  what 
had  been  told  him,  that  by-and-by  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  a  shadow  of  shame  rested  upon  his 
father's  fair  fame,  even  though  the  attaint  set 
upon  him  was  unrighteous  and  unjust,  as  Myles 
knew  it  must  be.  He  had  felt  angry  and  resentful 
at  the  Earl's  neglect,  and  as  days  passed  and  he  was 
not  noticed  in  any  way,  his  heart  was  at  times  very 
bitter. 

So  now  Gascoyne's  innocent  question  touched  a 
sore  spot,  and  Myles  spoke  with  a  sharp,  angry 
pain  in  his  voice  that  made  the  other  look  quickly 
up.  "Sooner  would  my  Lord  have  yonder  swine- 
herd serve  him  in  the  household  than  me,"  said 
he. 

"Why  may  that  be,  Myles?"  said  Gascoyne. 

"Because,"  answered  Myles,  with  the  same 
angry  bitterness  in  his  voice,  "either  the  Earl  is  a 
coward  that  feareth  to  befriend  me,  or  else  he  is  a 
caitiff,  ashamed  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  of 
me,  the  son  of  his  one-time  comrade." 

Gascoyne  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and 
opened  his  eyes  wide  in  wonder.  "Afeard  of  thee, 

92 


Myles!"  quoth  he.  "Why  should  he  be  afeared  to 
befriend  thee?  Who  art  thou  that  the  Earl  should 
fear  thee?" 

Myles  hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two;  wisdom 
bade  him  remain  silent  upon  the  dangerous  topic, 
but  his  heart  yearned  for  sympathy  and  compan- 
ionship in  his  trouble.  "I  will  tell  thee,"  said  he, 
suddenly,  and  therewith  poured  out  all  of  the 
story,  so  far  as  he  knew  it,  to  his  listening,  wonder- 
ing friend,  and  his  heart  felt  lighter  to  be  thus 
eased  of  its  burden.  "And  now,"  said  he,  as  he  con- 
cluded, "is  not  this  Earl  a  mean-hearted  caitiff  to 
leave  me,  the  son  of  his  one-time  friend  and  kins- 
man, thus  to  stand  or  to  fall  alone  among  strangers 
and  in  a  strange  place  without  once  stretching  me 
a  helping  hand?"  He  waited,  and  Gascoyne  knew 
that  he  expected  an  answer. 

"I  know  not  that  he  is  a  mean-hearted  caitiff, 
Myles,"  said  he  at  last,  hesitatingly.  "The  Earl 
hath  many  enemies,  and  I  have  heard  that  he  hath 
stood  more  than  once  in  peril,  having  been  ac- 
cused of  dealings  with  the  King's  foes.  He  was 
cousin  to  the  Earl  of  Kent,  and  I  do  remember 
hearing  that  he  had  a  narrow  escape  at  that  time 
from  ruin.  There  be  more  reasons  than  thou  wot- 
test  of  why  he  should  not  have  dealings  with  thy 
father." 

"I  had  not  thought,"  said  Myles,  bitterly,  after  a 

93 


little  pause,  "that  thou  wouldst  stand  up  for  him 
and  against  me  in  this  quarrel,  Gascoyne.  Him  will 
I  never  forgive  so  long  as  I  may  live,  and  I  had 
thought  that  thou  wouldst  have  stood  by  me." 

"So  I  do,"  said  Gascoyne,  hastily,  "and  do  love 
thee  more  than  any  one  in  all  the  world,  Myles; 
but  I  had  thought  that  it  would  make  thee  feel 
more  easy  to  think  that  the  Earl  was  not  against 
thee.  And,  indeed,  from  all  thou  has  told  me,  I  do 
soothly  think  that  he  and  Sir  James  mean  to  be- 
friend thee  and  hold  thee  privily  in  kind  regard." 

"Then  why  doth  he  not  stand  forth  like  a  man 
and  befriend  me  and  my  father  openly,  even  if  it 
be  to  his  own  peril?"  said  Myles,  reverting  stub- 
bornly to  what  he  had  first  spoken. 

Gascoyne  did  not  answer,  but  lay  for  a  long 
while  in  silence.  "Knowest  thou,"  he  suddenly 
asked,  after  a  while,  "who  is  this  great  enemy  of 
whom  Sir  James  speaketh,  and  who  seeketh  so  to 
drive  thy  father  to  ruin?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  "I  know  not,  for  my  father 
hath  never  spoken  of  these  things,  and  Sir  James 
would  not  tell  me.  But  this  I  know,"  said  he,  sud- 
denly, grinding  his  teeth  together,  "an  I  do  not 
hunt  him  out  some  day  and  slay  him  like  a  dog — " 
He  stopped  abruptly,  and  Gascoyne,  looking 
askance  at  him,  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of 

94 


tears,  whereupon  he  turned  his  looks  away  again 
quickly,  and  fell  to  shooting  pebbles  out  through 
the  open  window  with  his  finger  and  thumb. 

"Thou  wilt  tell  no  one  of  these  things  that  I 
have  said?"  said  Myles,  after  a  while. 

"Not  I,"  said  Gascoyne.  "Thinkest  thou  I  could 
do  such  a  thing?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  briefly. 

Perhaps  this  talk  more  than  anything  else  that 
had  ever  passed  between  them  knit  the  two 
friends  the  closer  together,  for,  as  I  have  said, 
Myles  felt  easier  now  that  he  had  poured  out  his 
bitter  thoughts  and  words;  and  as  for  Gascoyne,  I 
think  that  there  is  nothing  so  flattering  to  one's 
soul  as  to  be  made  the  confidant  of  a  stronger 
nature. 

But  the  old  tower  served  another  purpose  than 
that  of  a  spot  in  which  to  pass  away  a  few  idle 
hours,  or  in  which  to  indulge  the  confidences  of 
friendship,  for  it  was  there  that  Myles  gathered  a 
backing  of  strength  for  resistance  against  the  ty- 
ranny of  the  bachelors,  and  it  is  for  that  more  than 
for  any  other  reason  that  it  has  been  told  how  they 
found  the  place  and  of  what  they  did  there,  feel- 
ing secure  against  interruption. 

Myles  Falworth  was  not  of  a  kind  that  forgets  or 

95 


neglects  a  thing  upon  which  the  mind  has  once 
been  set.  Perhaps  his  chief  objective  since  the  talk 
with  Sir  James  following  his  fight  in  the  dormitory 
had  been  successful  resistance  to  the  exactions  of 
the  head  of  the  body  of  squires.  He  was  now 
(more  than  a  month  had  passed)  looked  upon  by 
nearly  if  not  all  of  the  younger  lads  as  an  acknowl- 
edged leader  in  his  own  class.  So  one  day  he 
broached  a  matter  to  Gascoyne  that  had  for  some 
time  been  digesting  in  his  mind.  It  was  the  forma- 
tion of  a  secret  order,  calling  themselves  the 
"Knights  of  the  Rose,"  their  meeting-place  to  be 
the  chapel  of  the  Brutus  Tower,  and  their  object 
to  be  the  righting  of  wrongs,  "as  they,"  said  Myles, 
"of  Arthur  his  Round-table  did  right  wrongs." 

"But,  prithee,  what  wrongs  are  there  to  right  in 
this  place?"  quoth  Gascoyne,  after  listening  in- 
tently to  the  plan  which  Myles  set  forth. 

"Why,  first  of  all,  this,"  said  Myles,  clinching  his 
fists,  as  he  had  a  habit  of  doing  when  anything 
stirred  him  deeply,  "that  we  set  those  vile  bache- 
lors to  their  right  place;  and  that  is,  that  they  be 
no  longer  our  masters,  but  our  fellows." 

Gascoyne  shook  his  head.  He  hated  clashing 
and  conflict  above  all  things,  and  was  for  peace. 
Why  should  they  thus  rush  to  thrust  themselves 
into  trouble?  Let  matters  abide  as  they  were  a 

96 


little  longer;  surely  life  was  pleasant  enough  with- 
out turning  it  all  topsy-turvy.  Then,  with  a  sort  of 
indignation,  why  should  Myles,  who  had  only 
come  among  them  a  month,  take  such  service 
more  to  heart  than  they  who  had  endured  it  for 
years?  And,  finally,  with  the  hopefulness  of  so 
many  of  the  rest  of  us,  he  advised  Myles  to  let 
matters  alone,  and  they  would  right  themselves  in 
time. 

But  Myles's  mind  was  determined;  his  active 
spirit  could  not  brook  resting  passively  under  a 
wrong;  he  would  endure  no  longer,  and  now  or 
never  they  must  make  their  stand. 

"But  look  thee,  Myles  Falworth,"  said  Gas- 
coyne,  "all  this  is  not  to  be  done  withouten  fight- 
ing shrewdly.  Wilt  thou  take  that  fighting  upon 
thine  own  self?  As  for  me,  I  tell  thee  I  love  it 
not." 

"Why,  aye,"  said  Myles;  "I  ask  no  man  to  do 
what  I  will  not  do  myself." 

Gascoyne  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "So  be  it," 
said  he.  "An  thou  hast  appetite  to  run  thy  head 
against  hard  knocks,  do  it  i'  mercy's  name!  I  for 
one  will  stand  thee  back  while  thou  art  taking  thy 
raps." 

There  was  a  spirit  of  drollery  in  Gascoyne's 
speech  that  rubbed  against  Myles's  earnestness. 

97 


"Out  upon  it!"  cried  he,  his  patience  giving  way. 
"Seest  not  that  I  am  in  serious  earnest?  Why  then 
dost  thou  still  jest  like  Mad  Noll,  my  Lord's  fool? 
An  thou  wilt  not  lend  me  thine  aid  in  this  matter, 
say  so  and  ha'  done  with  it,  and  I  will  bethink  me 
of  somewhere  else  to  turn." 

Then  Gascoyne  yielded  at  once,  as  he  always 
did  when  his  friend  lost  his  temper,  and  having 
once  assented  to  it,  entered  into  the  scheme  heart 
and  soul.  Three  other  lads — one  of  them  that  tall 
thin  squire  Edmund  Wilkes,  before  spoken  of — 
were  sounded  upon  the  subject.  They  also  entered 
into  the  plan  of  the  secret  organization  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  might  perhaps  not  have  been 
quite  so  glowing  had  they  realized  how  very  soon 
Myles  designed  embarking  upon  active  practical 
operations.  One  day  Myles  and  Gascoyne  showed 
them  the  strange  things  that  they  had  discovered 
in  the  old  tower — the  inner  staircases,  the  winding 
passage-ways,  the  queer  niches  and  cupboard,  and 
the  black  shaft  of  a  well  that  pierced  down  into 
the  solid  wall,  and  whence,  perhaps,  the  old  castle 
folk  had  one  time  drawn  their  supply  of  water  in 
time  of  siege,  and  with  every  new  wonder  of  the 
marvellous  place  the  enthusiasm  of  the  three  re- 
cruits rose  higher  and  higher.  They  rummaged 
through  the  lumber  pile  in  the  great  circular  room 

98 


as  Myles  and  Gascoyne  had  done,  and  at  last,  tired 
out,  they  ascended  to  the  airy  chapel,  and  there 
sat  cooling  themselves  in  the  rustling  freshness  of 
the  breeze  that  came  blowing  briskly  in  through 
the  arched  windows. 

It  was  then  and  there  that  the  five  discussed  and 
finally  determined  upon  the  detailed  plans  of  their 
organization,  canvassing  the  names  of  the  squire- 
hood,  and  selecting  from  it  a  sufficient  number  of 
bold  and  daring  spirits  to  make  up  a  roll  of  twenty 
names  in  all. 

Gascoyne  had,  as  I  said,  entered  into  the  matter 
with  spirit,  and  perhaps  it  was  owing  more  to  him 
than  to  any  other  that  the  project  caught  its  de- 
lightful flavor  of  romance. 

"Perchance,"  said  he,  as  the  five  lads  lay  in  the 
rustling  stillness  through  which  sounded  the  mo- 
notonous and  ceaseless  cooing  of  the  pigeons — 
"perchance  there  may  be  dwarfs  and  giants  and 
dragons  and  enchanters  and  evil  knights  and  what 
not  even  nowadays.  And  who  knows  but  that  if  we 
Knights  of  the  Rose  hold  together  we  may  go  forth 
into  the  world,  and  do  battle  with  them,  and  save 
beautiful  ladies,  and  have  tales  and  gestes  written 
about  us  as  they  are  writ  about  the  Seven  Cham- 
pions and  Arthur  his  Round-table." 

Perhaps  Myles,  who  lay  silently  listening  to  all 

99 


that  was  said,  was  the  only  one  who  looked  upon 
the  scheme  at  all  in  the  light  of  real  utility,  but  I 
think  that  even  with  him  the  fun  of  the  matter 
outweighed  the  serious  part  of  the  business. 

So  it  was  that  the  Sacred  Order  of  the  Twenty 
Knights  of  the  Rose  came  to  be  initiated.  They 
appointed  a  code  of  secret  passwords  and  counter- 
signs which  were  very  difficult  to  remember,  and 
which  were  only  used  when  they  might  excite  the 
curiosity  of  the  other  and  uninitiated  boys  by  their 
mysterious  sound.  They  elected  Myles  as  their 
Grand  High  Commander,  and  held  secret  meet- 
ings in  the  ancient  tower,  where  many  mysteries 
were  soberly  enacted. 

Of  course  in  a  day  or  two  all  the  body  of  squires 
knew  nearly  everything  concerning  the  Knights  of 
the  Rose,  and  of  their  secret  meetings  in  the  old 
tower.  The  lucky  twenty  were  the  objects  of  envy 
of  all  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  included  in  this 
number,  and  there  was  a  marked  air  of  secrecy 
about  everything  they  did  that  appealed  to  every 
romantic  notion  of  the  youngsters  looking  on. 
What  was  the  stormy  outcome  of  it  all  is  now 
presently  to  be  told. 


100 


CHAPTER  12 


XL, 


Hus  IT  was  that  Myles,  with  an  eye  to  open 
war  with  the  bachelors,  gathered  a  following  to 
his  support.  It  was  some  little  while  before  matters 
were  brought  to  a  crisis — a  week  or  ten  days.  Per- 
haps even  Myles  had  no  great  desire  to  hasten 
matters.  He  knew  that  whenever  war  was  de- 
clared, he  himself  would  have  to  bear  the  brunt 
of  the  battle,  and  even  the  bravest  man  hesitates 
before  deliberately  thrusting  himself  into  a  fight. 
One  morning  Myles  and  Gascoyne  and  Wilkes 
sat  under  the  shade  of  two  trees,  between  which 
was  a  board  nailed  to  the  trunks,  making  a  rude 
bench — always  a  favorite  lounging-place  for  the 
lads  in  idle  moments.  Myles  was  polishing  his 
bascinet  with  lard  and  wood-ashes,  rubbing  the 
metal  with  a  piece  of  leather,  and  wiping  it  clean 

101 


with  a  fustian  rag.  The  other  two,  who  had  just 
been  relieved  from  household  duty,  lay  at  length 
idly  looking  on. 

Just  then  one  of  the  smaller  pages,  a  boy  of 
twelve  or  thirteen,  by  name  Robin  Ingoldsby, 
crossed  the  court.  He  had  been  crying;  his  face 
was  red  and  blubbered,  and  his  body  was  still 
shaken  with  convulsive  sniffs. 

Myles  looked  up.  "Come  hither,  Robin,"  he 
called  from  where  he  sat.  "What  is  to  do?" 

The  little  fellow  came  slowly  up  to  where  the 
three  rested  in  the  shade.  "Mowbray  beat  me  with 
a  strap,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  sleeve  across  his 
eyes,  and  catching  his  breath  at  the  recollection. 

"Beat  thee,  didst  say?"  said  Myles,  drawing  his 
brows  together.  "Why  did  he  beat  thee?" 

"Because,"  said  Robin,  "I  tarried  overlong  in 
fetching  a  pot  of  beer  from  the  buttery  for  him 
and  Wyatt,"  Then,  with  a  boy's  sudden  and  easy 
quickness  in  forgetting  past  troubles,  "Tell  me, 
Falworth,"  said  he,  "when  wilt  thou  give  me  that 
knife  thou  promised  me — the  one  thou  break  the 
blade  of  yesterday?" 

"I  know  not,"  said  Myles,  bluntly,  vexed  that 
the  boy  did  not  take  the  disgrace  of  his  beating 
more  to  heart.  "Some  time  soon,  mayhap.  Me 
thinks  thou  shouldst  think  more  of  thy  beating 

102 


than  of  a  broken  knife.  Now  get  thee  gone  to  thy 
business." 

The  youngster  lingered  for  a  moment  or  two 
watching  Myles  at  his  work.  "What  is  that  on  the 
leather  scrap,  Falworth?"  said  he,  curiously. 

"Lard  and  ashes,"  said  Myles,  testily.  "Get  thee 
gone,  I  say,  or  I  will  crack  thy  head  for  thee;"  and 
he  picked  up  a  block  of  wood,  with  a  threatening 
gesture. 

The  youngster  made  a  hideous  grimace,  and 
then  scurried  away,  ducking  his  head,  lest  in  spite 
of  Myles's  well-known  good-nature  the  block 
should  come  whizzing  after  him. 

"Hear  ye  that  now!"  cried  Myles,  flinging  down 
the  block  again  and  turning  to  his  two  friends. 
"Beaten  with  straps  because,  forsooth,  he  would 
not  fetch  and  carry  quickly  enough  to  please  the 
haste  of  these  bachelors.  Oh,  this  passeth  patience, 
and  I  for  one  will  bear  it  no  longer." 

"Nay,  Myles,"  said  Gascoyne,  soothingly,  "the 
little  imp  is  as  lazy  as  a  dormouse  and  as  mis- 
chievous as  a  monkey.  I'll  warrant  the  hiding  was 
his  due,  and  that  more  of  the  like  would  do  him 
good." 

"Why,  how  dost  thou  talk,  Francis!"  said  Myles, 
turning  upon  him  indignantly.  "Thou  knowest 
that  thou  likest  to  see  the  boy  beaten  no  more  than 

103 


I."  Then,  after  a  meditative  pause,  "How  many, 
think  ye,  we  muster  of  our  company  of  the  Rose  to- 
day?" 

Wilkes  looked  doubtfully  at  Gascoyne.  "There 
be  only  seventeen  of  us  here  now,"  said  he  at  last. 
"Brinton  and  Lambourne  are  away  to  Roby  Castle 
in  Lord  George's  train,  and  will  not  be  back  till 
Saturday  next.  And  Watt  Newton  is  in  the  infir- 
mary." 

"Seventeen  be'st  enou,"  said  Myles,  grimly.  "Let 
us  get  together  this  afternoon,  such  as  may,  in  the 
Brutus  Tower,  for  I,  as  I  did  say,  will  no  longer 
suffer  these  vile  bachelors." 

Gascoyne  and  Wilkes  exchanged  looks,  and  then 
the  former  blew  a  long  whistle. 

So  that  afternoon  a  gloomy  set  of  young  faces 
were  gathered  together  in  the  Eyry — fifteen  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Rose — and  all  knew  why  they  were 
assembled.  The  talk  which  followed  was  con- 
ducted mostly  by  Myles.  He  addressed  the  others 
with  a  straightforward  vim  and  earnestness,  but 
the  response  was  only  half-hearted,  and  when  at 
last,  having  heated  himself  up  with  his  own  fire, 
he  sat  down,  puffing  out  his  red  cheeks  and  glaring 
round,  a  space  of  silence  followed,  the  lads  looked 
doubtfully  at  one  another.  Myles  felt  the  chill  of 
their  silence  strike  coldly  on  his  enthusiasm,  and  it 
vexed  him. 


104 


"What  wouldst  thou  do,  Falworth?"  said  one  of 
the  knights,  at  last.  "Wouldst  have  us  open  a  quar- 
rel with  the  bachelors?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  gruffly.  "I  had  thought  that 
ye  would  all  lend  me  a  hand  in  a  pitched  battle, 
but  now  I  see  that  ye  ha'  no  stomach  for  that. 
Ne'theless,  I  tell  ye  plainly  I  will  not  submit 
longer  to  the  bachelors.  So  now  I  will  ask  ye  not  to 
take  any  venture  upon  yourselves,  but  only  this: 
that  ye  will  stand  by  me  when  I  do  my  fighting, 
and  not  let  five  or  seven  of  them  fall  upon  me  at 
once." 

"There  is  Walter  Blunt;  he  is  parlous  strong," 
said  one  of  the  others,  after  a  time  of  silence.  "Me- 
thinks  he  could  conquer  any  two  of  us." 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "ye  do  fear  him  too  greatly. 
I  tell  ye  I  fear  not  to  stand  up  to  try  battle  with 
him  and  will  do  so,  too,  if  the  need  arise.  Only  say 
ye  that  ye  will  stand  by  my  back." 

"Marry,"  said  Gascoyne,  quaintly,  "an  thou  wilt 
dare  take  the  heavy  end  upon  thee,  I  for  one  am 
willing  to  stand  by  and  see  that  thou  have  thy  fill 
of  fighting." 

"I  too  will  stand  thee  by,  Myles,"  said  Edmund 
Wilkes. 

"And  I,  and  I,  and  I,"  said  others,  chiming  in. 

Those  who  would  still  have  held  back  were  car- 
ried along  by  the  stream,  and  so  it  was  settled  that 

105 


if  the  need  should  arise  for  Myles  to  do  a  bit  of 
fighting,  the  others  should  stand  by  to  see  that  he 
had  fair  play. 

"When  thinkest  thou  that  thou  wilt  take  thy 
stand  against  them,  Myles?"  asked  Wilkes. 

Myles  hesitated  a  moment.  "To-morrow,"  said 
he,  grimly. 

Several  of  the  lads  whistled  softly. 

Gascoyne  was  prepared  for  an  early  opening  of 
the  war,  but  perhaps  not  for  such  an  early  opening 
as  this.  "By  'r  Lady,  Myles,  thou  art  hungry  for 
brawling,"  said  he. 


106 


CHAPTER   13 


H, 


rFTER  THE  first  excitcment  of  meeting,  discuss- 
ing, and  deciding  had  passed,  Myles  began  to  feel 
the  weight  of  the  load  he  had  so  boldly  taken  upon 
himself.  He  began  to  reckon  what  a  serious  thing 
it  was  for  him  to  stand  as  a  single  champion 
against  the  tyranny  that  had  grown  so  strong 
through  years  of  custom.  Had  he  let  himself  do  so, 
he  might  almost  have  repented,  but  it  was  too  late 
now  for  repentance.  He  had  laid  his  hand  to  the 
plough,  and  he  must  drive  the  furrow. 

Somehow  the  news  of  impending  battle  had 
leaked  out  among  the  rest  of  the  body  of  squires, 
and  a  buzz  of  suppressed  excitement  hummed 
through  the  dormitory  that  evening.  The  bache- 
lors, to  whom,  no  doubt,  vague  rumors  had  been 
blown,  looked  lowering,  and  talked  together  in 

107 


low  voices,  standing  apart  in  a  group.  Some  of 
them  made  a  rather  marked  show  of  secreting 
knives  in  the  straw  of  their  beds,  and  no  doubt  it 
had  its  effect  upon  more  than  one  young  heart  that 
secretly  thrilled  at  the  sight  of  the  shining  blades. 
However,  all  was  undisturbed  that  evening.  The 
lights  were  put  out,  and  the  lads  retired  with  more 
than  usual  quietness,  only  for  the  murmur  of 
whispering. 

All  night  Myles's  sleep  was  more  or  less  dis- 
turbed by  dreams  in  which  he  was  now  conquer- 
ing, now  being  conquered,  and  before  the  day  had 
fairly  broken  he  was  awake.  He  lay  upon  his  cot, 
keying  himself  up  for  the  encounter  which  he  had 
set  upon  himself  to  face,  and  it  would  not  be  the 
truth  to  say  that  the  sight  of  those  knives  hidden 
in  the  straw  the  night  before  had  made  no  impres- 
sion upon  him.  By-and-by  he  knew  the  others 
were  beginning  to  awake,  for  he  heard  them 
softly  stirring,  and  as  the  light  grew  broad  and 
strong,  saw  them  arise,  one  by  one,  and  begin 
dressing  in  the  gray  morning.  Then  he  himself 
arose  and  put  on  his  doublet  and  hose,  strapping 
his  belt  tightly  about  his  waist;  then  he  sat  down 
on  the  side  of  his  cot. 

Presently  that  happened  for  which  he  was 
waiting;   two  of  the  younger  squires  started  to 

108 


bring  the  bachelors'  morning  supply  of  water.  As 
they  crossed  the  room  Myles  called  to  them  in  a 
loud  voice — a  little  uneven,  perhaps:  "Stop!  We 
draw  no  more  water  for  any  one  in  this  house,  sav- 
ing only  for  ourselves.  Set  ye  down  those  buckets, 
and  go  back  to  your  places!" 

The  two  lads  stopped,  half  turned,  and  then 
stood  still,  holding  the  three  buckets  undecidedly. 

In  a  moment  all  was  uproar  and  confusion,  for 
by  this  time  every  one  of  the  lads  had  arisen,  some 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  their  beds,  some  nearly,  oth- 
ers quite  dressed.  A  half-dozen  of  the  Knights  of 
the  Rose  came  over  to  where  Myles  stood,  gather- 
ing in  a  body  behind  him  and  the  others  followed, 
one  after  another. 

The  bachelors  were  hardly  prepared  for  such 
prompt  and  vigorous  action. 

"What  is  to  do?"  cried  one  of  them,  who  stood 
near  the  two  lads  with  the  buckets.  "Why  fetch  ye 
not  the  water?" 

"Falworth  says  we  shall  not  fetch  it,"  answered 
one  of  the  lads,  a  boy  by  the  name  of  Gosse. 

"What  mean  ye  by  that,  Falworth?"  the  young 
man  called  to  Myles. 

Myles's  heart  was  beating  thickly  and  heavily 
within  him,  but  nevertheless  he  spoke  up  boldly 
enough.  "I  mean,"  said  he,  "that  from  henceforth 

109 


ye  shall  fetch  and  carry  for  yourselves." 

"Look'ee,  Blunt,"  called  the  bachelor;  "here  is 
Falworth  says  they  squires  will  fetch  no  more 
water  for  us." 

The  head  bachelor  had  heard  all  that  had 
passed,  and  was  even  then  hastily  slipping  on  his 
doublet  and  hose.  "Now,  then,  Falworth,"  said  he 
at  last,  striding  forward,  "what  is  to  do?  Ye  will 
fetch  no  more  water,  eh?  By  'r  Lady,  I  will  know 
the  reason  why." 

He  was  still  advancing  towards  Myles,  with  two 
or  three  of  the  older  bachelors  at  his  heels,  when 
Gascoyne  spoke. 

"Thou  hadst  best  stand  back,  Blunt,"  said  he, 
"else  thou  mayst  be  hurt.  We  will  not  have  ye 
bang  Falworth  again  as  ye  once  did,  so  stand  thou 
back!" 

Blunt  stopped  short  and  looked  upon  the  lads 
standing  behind  Myles,  some  of  them  with  faces  a 
trifle  pale  perhaps,  but  all  grim  and  determined 
looking  enough.  Then  he  turned  upon  his  heel 
suddenly,  and  walked  back  to  the  far  end  of  the 
dormitory,  where  the  bachelors  were  presently 
clustered  together.  A  few  words  passed  between 
them,  and  then  the  thirteen  began  at  once  arming 
themselves,  some  with  wooden  clogs,  and  some 
with  the  knives  which  they  had  so  openly  con- 

110 


cealed  the  night  before.  At  the  sign  of  imminent 
battle,  all  those  not  actively  interested  scuttled 
away  to  right  and  left,  climbing  up  on  the  benches 
and  cots,  and  leaving  a  free  field  to  the  combat- 
ants. The  next  moment  would  have  brought  blood- 
shed. 

Now  Myles,  thanks  to  the  training  of  the  Cros- 
bey-Dale  smith,  felt  tolerably  sure  that  in  a  wres- 
tling bout  he  was  a  match — perhaps  more  than  a 
match — for  any  one  of  the  body  of  squires,  and  he 
had  determined,  if  possible,  to  bring  the  battle  to 
a  single-handed  encounter  upon  that  footing.  Ac- 
cordingly he  suddenly  stepped  forward  before  the 
others. 

"Look'ee,  fellow,"  he  called  to  Blunt,  "thou  art 
he  who  struck  me  whilst  I  was  down  some  while 
since.  Wilt  thou  let  this  quarrel  stand  between 
thee  and  me,  and  meet  me  man  to  man  without 
weapon?  See,  I  throw  me  down  mine  own,  and 
will  meet  thee  with  bare  hands."  And  as  he  spoke, 
he  tossed  the  clog  he  held  in  his  hand  back  upon 
the  cot. 

"So  be  it,"  said  Blunt,  with  great  readiness,  toss- 
ing down  a  similar  weapon  which  he  himself 
held. 

"Do  not  go,  Myles,"  cried  Gascoyne,  "he  is  a 
villain  and  a  traitor,  and  would  betray  thee  to  thy 


111 


death.  I  saw  him  when  he  first  gat  from  bed  hide  a 
knife  in  his  doublet." 

"Thou  liest!"  said  Blunt.  "I  swear,  by  my  faith, 
I  be  barehanded  as  ye  see  me!  Thy  friend  accuses 
me,  Myles  Falworth,  because  he  knoweth  thou  art 
afraid  of  me." 

"There  thou  liest  most  vilely!"  exclaimed 
Myles.  "Swear  that  thou  hast  no  knife,  and  I  will 
meet  thee." 

"Hast  thou  not  heard  me  say  that  I  have  no 
knife?"  said  Blunt.  "What  more  wouldst  thou 
have?" 

"Then  I  will  meet  thee  halfway,"  said  Myles. 

Gascoyne  caught  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  would 
have  withheld  him,  assuring  him  that  he  had  seen 
the  bachelor  conceal  a  knife.  But  Myles,  hot  for 
the  fight,  broke  away  from  his  friend  without  lis- 
tening to  him. 

As  the  two  advanced  steadily  towards  one  an- 
other a  breathless  silence  fell  upon  the  dormitory 
in  sharp  contrast  to  the  uproar  and  confusion  that 
had  filled  it  a  moment  before.  The  lads,  standing 
some  upon  benches,  some  upon  beds,  all  watched 
with  breathless  interest  the  meeting  of  the  two 
champions. 

As  they  approached  one  another  they  stopped 
and  stood  for  a  moment  a  little  apart,  glaring  the 

112 


one  upon  the  other.  They  seemed  ill  enough 
matched;  Blunt  was  fully  half  a  head  taller  than 
Myles,  and  was  thick-set  and  close-knit  in  young 
manhood.  Nothing  but  Myles's  undaunted  pluck 
could  have  led  him  to  dare  to  face  an  enemy  so 
much  older  and  stouter  than  himself. 

The  pause  was  only  for  a  moment.  They  who 
looked  saw  Blunt  slide  his  hand  furtively  towards 
his  bosom.  Myles  saw  too,  and  in  the  flash  of  an 
instant  knew  what  the  gesture  meant,  and  sprang 
upon  the  other  before  the  hand  could  grasp  what 
it  sought.  As  he  clutched  his  enemy  he  felt  what 
he  had  in  that  instant  expected  to  feel — the  handle 
of  a  dagger.  The  next  moment  he  cried,  in  a  loud 
voice:  "Oh,  thou  villain!  Help,  Gascoyne!  He 
hath  a  knife  under  his  doublet!" 

In  answer  to  his  cry  for  help,  Myles's  friends 
started  to  his  aid.  But  the  bachelors  shouted, 
"Stand  back  and  let  them  fight  it  out  alone,  else  we 
will  knife  ye  too."  And  as  they  spoke,  some  of 
them  leaped  from  the  benches  whereon  they 
stood,  drawing  their  knives  and  flourishing  them. 

For  just  a  few  seconds  Myles's  friends  stood 
cowed,  and  in  those  few  seconds  the  fight  came  to 
an  end  with  a  suddenness  unexpected  to  all. 

A  struggle  fierce  and  silent  followed  between 
the  two;    Blunt  striving  to  draw  his  knife,   and 

113 


Myles,  with  the  energy  of  despair,  holding  him 
tightly  by  the  wrist.  It  was  in  vain  the  elder  lad 
writhed  and  twisted;  he  was  strong  enough  to 
overbear  Myles,  but  still  was  not  able  to  clutch  the 
haft  of  his  knife. 

"Thou  shalt  not  draw  it!"  gasped  Myles  at  last. 
"Thou  shalt  not  stab  me!" 

Then  again  some  of  his  friends  started  forward 
to  his  aid,  but  they  were  not  needed,  for  before 
they  came,  the  fight  was  over. 

Blunt,  finding  that  he  was  not  able  to  draw  the 
weapon,  suddenly  ceased  his  endeavors,  and  flung 
his  arms  around  Myles,  trying  to  bear  him  down 
upon  the  ground,  and  in  that  moment  his  battle 
was  lost. 

In  an  instant — so  quick,  so  sudden,  so  unex- 
pected that  no  one  could  see  how  it  happened — 
his  feet  were  whirled  away  from  under  him,  he 
spun  with  flying  arms  across  Myles's  loins,  and 
pitched  with  a  thud  upon  the  stone  pavement, 
where  he  lay  still,  motionless,  while  Myles,  his  face 
white  with  passion  and  his  eyes  gleaming,  stood 
glaring  around  like  a  young  wild-boar  beset  by  the 
dogs. 

The  next  moment  the  silence  was  broken,  and 
the  uproar  broke  forth  with  redoubled  violence. 
The  bachelors,  leaping  from  the  benches,  came 

114 


hurrying  forward  on  one  side,  and  Myles's  friends 
from  the  other. 

"Thou  shah  smart  for  this,  Falworth,"  said  one 
of  the  older  lads.  "Belike  thou  hast  slain  him!" 

Myles  turned  upon  the  speaker  like  a  flash,  and 
with  such  a  passion  of  fury  in  his  face  that  the 
other,  a  fellow  nearly  a  head  taller  than  he,  shrank 
back,  cowed  in  spite  of  himself.  Then  Gascoyne 
came  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

"Who  touches  me?"  cried  Myles,  hoarsely,  turn- 
ing sharply  upon  him;  and  then,  seeing  who  it 
was,  "Oh,  Francis,  they  would  ha'  killed  me!" 

"Come  away,  Myles,"  said  Gascoyne;  "thou 
knowest  not  what  thou  doest;  thou  art  mad;  come 
away.  What  if  thou  hadst  killed  him?" 

The  words  called  Myles  somewhat  to  himself. 
"I  care  not!"  said  he,  but  sullenly  and  not  passion- 
ately, and  then  he  suffered  Gascoyne  and  Wilkes 
to  lead  him  away. 

Meantime  Blunt's  friends  had  turned  him  over, 
and,  after  feeling  his  temples,  his  wrist,  and  his 
heart,  bore  him  away  to  a  bench  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  There  they  fell  to  chafing  his  hands  and 
sprinkling  water  in  his  face,  a  crowd  of  the  others 
gathering  about.  Blunt  was  hidden  from  Myles  by 
those  who  stood  around,  and  the  lad  listened  to 
the  broken  talk  that  filled  the  room  with  its  con- 


115 


fusion,  his  anxiety  growing  keener  as  he  became 
cooler.  But  at  last,  with  a  heartfelt  joy,  he  gath- 
ered from  the  confused  buzz  of  words  that  the 
other  lad  had  opened  his  eyes  and,  after  a  while, 
he  saw  him  sit  up,  leaning  his  head  upon  the 
shoulder  of  one  of  his  fellow-bachelors,  white  and 
faint  and  sick  as  death. 

"Thank  Heaven  that  thou  didst  not  kill  him!" 
said  Edmund  Wilkes,  who  had  been  standing  with 
the  crowd  looking  on  at  the  efforts  of  Blunt's 
friends  to  revive  him,  and  who  had  now  come  and 
sat  down  upon  the  bed  not  far  from  Myles. 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  gruffly,  "I  do  thank  Heaven 
for  that." 


116 


They  bore  him  axuay  to  a  bench  at  the  far  efid  of  tlie  room. 


CHAPTER   14 


H 


F  MYLES  fancied  that  one  single  victory  over 
his  enemy  would  cure  the  evil  against  which  he 
fought,  he  was  grievously  mistaken;  wrongs  are 
not  righted  so  easily  as  that.  It  was  only  the  be- 
ginning. Other  and  far  more  bitter  battles  lay  be- 
fore him  ere  he  could  look  around  him  and  say,  "I 
have  won  the  victory." 

For  a  day — for  two  days — the  bachelors  were 
demoralized  at  the  fall  of  their  leader,  and  the 
Knights  of  the  Rose  were  proportionately  uplifted. 

The  day  that  Blunt  met  his  fall,  the  wooden 
tank  in  which  the  water  had  been  poured  every 
morning  was  foimd  to  have  been  taken  away.  The 
bachelors  made  a  great  show  of  indignation  and 
inquiry.  Who  was  it  stole  their  tank?  If  they  did 
but  know,  he  should  smart  for  it. 

"Ho!  ho!"  roared  Edmund  Wilkes,  so  that  the 


117 


whole  dormitory  heard  him,  "smoke  ye  not  their 
tricks,  lads?  See  ye  not  that  they  have  stolen  their 
own  water-tank,  so  that  they  might  have  no  need 
for  another  fight  over  the  carrying  of  the  water?" 

The  bachelors  made  an  obvious  show  of  not 
having  heard  what  he  said,  and  a  general  laugh 
went  around.  No  one  doubted  that  Wilkes  had 
spoken  the  truth  in  his  taunt,  and  that  the 
bachelors  had  indeed  stolen  their  own  tank.  So  no 
more  water  was  ever  carried  for  the  head  squires, 
but  it  was  plain  to  see  that  the  war  for  the  upper- 
hand  was  not  yet  over. 

Even  if  Myles  had  entertained  comforting 
thoughts  to  the  contrary,  he  was  speedily  unde- 
ceived. One  morning,  about  a  week  after  the  fight, 
as  he  and  Gascoyne  were  crossing  the  armory 
court,  they  were  hailed  by  a  group  of  the  bache- 
lors standing  at  the  stone  steps  of  the  great  build- 
ing. 

"Holloa,  Falworth!"  they  cried.  "Knowest  thou 
that  Blunt  is  nigh  well  again?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "I  knew  it  not.  But  I  am 
right  glad  to  hear  it." 

"Thou  wilt  sing  a  different  song  anon,"  said  one 
of  the  bachelors.  "I  tell  thee  he  is  hot  against  thee, 
and  swears  when  he  cometh  again  he  will  carve 
thee  soothly." 


118 


"Aye,  marry!"  said  another.  "I  would  not  be  in 
thy  skin  a  week  hence  for  a  ducat!  Only  this  morn- 
ing he  told  Philip  Mowbray  that  he  would  have 
thy  blood  for  the  fall  thou  gavest  him.  Look  to 
thyself,  Falworth;  he  cometh  again  Wednesday  or 
Thursday  next;  thou  standest  in  a  parlous  state." 

"Myles,"  said  Gascoyne,  as  they  entered  the 
great  quadrangle,  "I  do  indeed  fear  me  that  he 
meaneth  to  do  thee  evil." 

"I  know  not,"  said  Myles,  boldly;  "but  I  fear 
him  not."  Nevertheless  his  heart  was  heavy  with 
the  weight  of  impending  ill. 

One  evening  the  bachelors  were  more  than  usu- 
ally noisy  in  their  end  of  the  dormitory,  laughing 
and  talking  and  shouting  to  one  another. 

"Holloa,  you  sirrah,  Falworth!"  called  one  of 
them  along  the  length  of  the  room.  "Blunt  cometh 
again  to-morrow  day." 

Myles  saw  Gascoyne  direct  a  sharp  glance  at 
him;  but  he  answered  nothing  either  to  his  ene- 
my's words  or  his  friend's  look. 

As  the  bachelor  had  said,  Blunt  came  the  next 
morning.  It  was  just  after  chapel,  and  the  whole 
body  of  squires  was  gathered  in  the  armory  wait- 
ing for  the  orders  of  the  day  and  the  calling  of  the 
roll  of  those  chosen  for  household  duty.  Myles  was 
sitting  on  a  bench  along  the  wall,  talking  and  jest- 


119 


ing  with  some  who  stood  by,  when  of  a  sudden  his 
heart  gave  a  great  leap  within  him. 

It  was  Walter  Blunt.  He  came  walking  in  at  the 
door  as  if  nothing  had  passed,  and  at  his  unex- 
pected coming  the  hubbub  of  talk  and  laughter 
was  suddenly  checked.  Even  Myles  stopped  in  his 
speech  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued  with  a 
beating  heart  and  a  carelessness  of  manner  that 
was  altogether  assumed.  In  his  hand  Blunt  carried 
the  house  orders  for  the  day,  and  without  seeming 
to  notice  Myles,  he  opened  it  and  read  the  list  of 
those  called  upon  for  household  service. 

Myles  had  risen,  and  was  now  standing  listening 
with  the  others.  When  Blunt  had  ended  reading 
the  list  of  names,  he  rolled  up  the  parchment,  and 
thrust  it  into  his  belt;  then  swinging  suddenly  on 
his  heel,  he  strode  straight  up  to  Myles,  facing  him 
front  to  front.  A  moment  or  two  of  deep  silence 
followed;  not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness.  When 
Blunt  spoke  every  one  in  the  armory  heard  his 
words. 

"Sirrah!"  said  he,  "thou  didst  put  foul  shame 
upon  me  some  time  sin.  Never  will  I  forget  or  for- 
give that  offence,  and  will  have  a  reckoning  with 
thee  right  soon  that  thou  wilt  not  forget  to  the  last 
day  of  thy  life." 

When  Myles  had  seen  his  enemy  turn  upon  him, 

120 


he  did  not  know  at  first  what  to  expect;  he  would 
not  have  been  surprised  had  they  come  to  blows 
there  and  then,  and  he  held  himself  prepared  for 
any  event.  He  faced  the  other  pluckily  enough  and 
without  flinching,  and  spoke  up  boldly  in  answer. 
"So  be  it,  Walter  Blunt;  I  fear  thee  not  in  what- 
ever way  thou  mayst  encounter  me." 

"Dost  thou  not?"  said  Blunt.  "By'r  Lady,  thou'lt 
have  cause  to  fear  me  ere  I  am  through  with  thee." 
He  smiled  a  baleful,  lingering  smile,  and  then 
turned  slowly  and  walked  away. 

"What  thinkest  thou,  Myles?"  said  Gascoyne,  as 
the  two  left  the  armory  together. 

"I  think  naught,"  said  Myles  gruffly.  "He  will 
not  dare  to  touch  me  to  harm  me.  I  fear  him  not." 
Nevertheless,  he  did  not  speak  the  full  feelings  of 
his  heart. 

"I  know  not,  Myles,"  said  Gascoyne,  shaking 
his  head  doubtfully.  "Walter  Blunt  is  a  parlous 
evil-minded  knave,  and  methinks  will  do  whatever 
evil  he  promiseth." 

"I  fear  him  not,"  said  Myles  again;  but  his  heart 
foreboded  trouble. 

The  coming  of  the  head  squire  made  a  very 
great  change  in  the  condition  of  affairs.  Even 
before  that  coming  the  bachelors  had  somewhat 
recovered   from    their   demoralization,   and   now 


121 


again  they  began  to  pluck  up  their  confidence  and 
to  order  the  younger  squires  and  pages  upon  this 
personal  service  or  upon  that. 

"See  ye  not,"  said  Myles  one  day,  when  the 
Knights  of  the  Rose  were  gathered  in  the  Brutus 
Tower — "see  ye  not  that  they  grow  as  bad  as  ever? 
An  we  put  not  a  stop  to  this  overmastery  now,  it 
will  never  stop." 

"Best  let  it  be,  Myles,"  said  Wilkes.  "They  will 
kill  thee  an  thou  cease  not  troubling  them.  Thou 
hast  bred  mischief  enow  for  thyself  already." 

"No  matter  for  that,"  said  Myles;  "it  is  not  to  be 
borne  that  they  order  others  of  us  about  as  they 
do.  I  mean  to  speak  to  them  to-night,  and  tell 
them  it  shall  not  be." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  That  night,  as  the 
youngsters  were  shouting  and  romping  and  sky- 
larking, as  they  always  did  before  turning  in,  he 
stood  upon  his  cot  and  shouted:  "Silence!  List  to 
me  a  little!"  And  then,  in  the  hush  that  followed — 
"I  want  those  bachelors  to  hear  this:  that  we 
squires  serve  them  no  longer,  and  if  they  would 
ha'  some  to  wait  upon  them,  they  must  get  them 
otherwheres  than  here.  There  be  twenty  of  us  to 
stand  against  them  and  haply  more,  and  we  mean 
that  they  shall  ha'  service  of  us  no  more." 

Then  he  jumped  down  again  from  his  elevated 

122 


stand,  and  an  uproar  of  confusion  instantly  filled 
the  place.  What  was  the  effect  of  his  words  upon 
the  bachelors  he  could  not  see.  What  was  the  re- 
sult he  was  not  slow  in  discovering. 

The  next  day  Myles  and  Gascoyne  were  throw- 
ing their  daggers  for  a  wager  at  a  wooden  target 
against  the  wall  back  of  the  armorer's  smithy. 
Wilkes,  Gosse,  and  one  or  two  others  of  the 
squires  were  sitting  on  a  bench  looking  on,  and 
now  and  then  applauding  a  more  than  usually 
well-aimed  cast  of  the  knife.  Suddenly  that  impish 
little  page  spoken  of  before,  Robin  Ingoldsby, 
thrust  his  shock  head  around  the  corner  of  the 
smithy,  and  said:  "Ho,  Falworth!  Blunt  is  going  to 
serve  thee  out  to-day,  and  I  myself  heard  him  say 
so.  He  says  he  is  going  to  slit  thine  ears."  And  then 
he  was  gone  as  suddenly  as  he  had  appeared. 

Myles  darted  after  him,  caught  him  midway  in 
the  quadrangle,  and  brought  him  back  by  the  scuff 
of  the  neck,  squalling  and  struggling. 

"There!"  said  he,  still  panting  from  the  chase 
and  seating  the  boy  by  no  means  gently  upon  the 
bench  beside  Wilkes.  "Sit  thou  there,  thou  imp  of 
evil!  And  now  tell  me  what  thou  didst  mean  by 
thy  words  anon — an  thou  stop  not  thine  outcry,  I 
will  cut  thy  throat  for  thee,"  and  he  made  a  fero- 
cious gesture  with  his  dagger. 

123 


It  was  by  no  means  easy  to  worm  the  story  from 
the  mischievous  little  monkey;  he  knew  Myles  too 
well  to  be  in  the  least  afraid  of  his  threats.  But  at 
last,  by  dint  of  bribing  and  coaxing,  Myles  and  his 
friends  managed  to  get  at  the  facts.  The  youngster 
had  been  sent  to  clean  the  riding-boots  of  one  of 
the  bachelors,  instead  of  which  he  had  lolled  idly 
on  a  cot  in  the  dormitory,  until  he  had  at  last 
fallen  asleep.  He  had  been  awakened  by  the  open- 
ing of  the  dormitory  door  and  by  the  sound  of 
voices — among  them  was  that  of  his  taskmaster. 
Fearing  punishment  for  his  neglected  duty,  he  had 
slipped  out  of  the  cot,  and  hidden  himself  beneath 
it. 

Those  who  had  entered  were  Walter  Blunt  and 
three  of  the  older  bachelors.  Blunt's  companions 
were  trying  to  persuade  him  against  something, 
but  without  avail.  It  was — Myles's  heart  thrilled 
and  his  blood  boiled — to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  to 
overpower  him  by  numbers,  and  to  mutilate  him 
by  slitting  his  ears — a  disgraceful  punishment 
administered,  as  a  rule,  only  for  thieving  and 
poaching. 

"He  would  not  dare  to  do  such  a  thing!"  cried 
Myles,  with  heaving  breast  and  flashing  eyes. 

"Aye,  but  he  would,"  said  Gascoyne.  "His  fa- 
ther, Lord  Reginald  Blunt,  is  a  great  man  over 

124 


Nottingham  way,  and  my  Lord  would  not  dare  to 
punish  him  even  for  such  a  matter  as  that.  But 
tell  me,  Robin  Ingoldsby,  dost  know  aught  more  of 
this  matter?  Prithee  tell  it  me,  Robin.  Where  do 
they  propose  to  lie  in  wait  for  Falworth?" 

"In  the  gate-way  of  the  Buttery  Court,  so  as  to 
catch  him  when  he  passes  by  to  the  armory,"  an- 
swered the  boy. 

"Are  they  there  now?"  said  Wilkes. 

"Aye,  nine  of  them,"  said  Robin.  "I  heard  Blunt 
tell  Mowbray  to  go  and  gather  the  others.  He 
heard  thee  tell  Gosse,  Falworth,  that  thou  wert 
going  thither  for  thy  arbalist  this  morn  to  shoot  at 
the  rooks  withal." 

"That  will  do,  Robin,"  said  Myles.  "Thou 
mayst  go." 

And  therewith  the  little  imp  scurried  off,  pull- 
ing the  lobes  of  his  ears  suggestively  as  he  darted 
around  the  corner. 

The  others  looked  at  one  another  for  a  while  in 
silence. 

"So,  comrades,"  said  Myles  at  last,  "what  shall 
we  do  now?" 

"Go,  and  tell  Sir  James,"  said  Gascoyne, 
promptly. 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  "I  take  no  such  coward's  part 
as  that.  I  say  an  they  hunger  to  fight,  give  them 
their  stomachful." 


125 


The  others  were  very  reluctant  for  such  extreme 
measures,  but  Myles,  as  usual,  carried  his  way, 
and  so  a  pitched  battle  was  decided  upon.  It  was 
Gascoyne  who  suggested  the  plan  which  they  af- 
terwards followed. 

Then  Wilkes  started  away  to  gather  together 
those  of  the  Knights  of  the  Rose  not  upon  house- 
hold duty,  and  Myles,  with  the  others,  went  to 
the  armor  smith  to  have  him  make  for  them  a  set 
of  knives  with  which  to  meet  their  enemies — 
knives  with  blades  a  foot  long,  pointed  and  double- 
edged. 

The  smith,  leaning  with  his  hammer  upon  the 
anvil,  listened  to  them  as  they  described  the 
weapons. 

"Nay,  nay.  Master  Myles,"  said  he,  when  Myles 
had  ended  by  telling  the  use  to  which  he  intended 
putting  them.  "Thou  art  going  all  wrong  in  this 
matter.  With  such  blades,  ere  this  battle  is  ended, 
some  one  would  be  slain,  and  so  murder  done. 
Then  the  family  of  him  who  was  killed  would 
haply  have  ye  cited,  and  mayhap  it  might  e'en 
come  to  the  hanging,  for  some  of  they  boys  ha' 
great  folkeys  behind  them.  Go  ye  to  Tom  Fletcher, 
Master  Myles,  and  buy  of  him  good  yew  staves, 
such  as  one  might  break  a  head  withal,  and  with 
them,  gin  ye  keep  your  wits,  ye  may  hold  your 
own  against  knives  or  short  swords.  I  tell  thee,  e'en 

126 


though  my  trade  be  making  of  blades,  rather 
would  I  ha'  a  good  stout  cudgel  in  my  hand  than 
the  best  dagger  that  ever  was  forged." 

Myles  stood  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  or  two; 
then,  looking  up,  "Methinks  thou  speaketh  truly, 
Robin,"  said  he;  "and  it  were  ill  done  to  have 
blood  upon  our  hands." 


127 


CHAPTER  15 


3f> 


ROM  THE  long,  narrow  stone-paved  Armory 
Court,  and  connecting  it  with  the  inner  Buttery 
Court,  ran  a  narrow  arched  passage-way,  in  which 
was  a  picket-gate,  closed  at  night  and  locked  from 
within.  It  was  in  this  arched  passage-way  that,  ac- 
cording to  little  Robert  Ingoldsby's  report,  the 
bachelors  were  lying  in  wait  for  Myles.  Gascoyne's 
plan  was  that  Myles  should  enter  the  court  alone, 
the  Knights  of  the  Rose  lying  ambushed  behind 
the  angle  of  the  armory  building  until  the  bache- 
lors should  show  themselves. 

It  was  not  without  trepidation  that  Myles 
walked  alone  into  the  court,  which  happened  then 
to  be  silent  and  empty.  His  heart  beat  more 
quickly  than  it  was  wont,  and  he  gripped  his 
cudgel  behind  his  back,  looking  sharply  this  way 
and  that,  so  as  not  to  be  taken  unawares  by  a  flank 

128 


movement  of  his  enemies.  Midway  in  the  court  he 
stopped  and  hesitated  for  a  moment;  then  he 
turned  as  though  to  enter  the  armory.  The  next 
moment  he  saw  the  bachelors  come  pouring  out 
from  the  archway. 

Instantly  he  turned  and  rushed  back  towards 
where  his  friends  lay  hidden,  shouting:  "To  the 
rescue!  To  the  rescue!" 

"Stone  him!"  roared  Blunt.  "The  villain  es- 
capes!" 

He  stopped  and  picked  up  a  cobble-stone  as  he 
spoke,  flinging  it  after  his  escaping  prey.  It  nar- 
rowly missed  Myles's  head;  had  it  struck  him, 
there  might  have  been  no  more  of  this  story  to 
tell. 

"To  the  rescue!  To  the  rescue!"  shouted  Myles's 
friends  in  answer,  and  the  next  moment  he  was 
surrounded  by  them.  Then  he  turned,  and  swing- 
ing his  cudgel,  rushed  back  upon  his  foes. 

The  bachelors  stopped  short  at  the  unexpected 
sight  of  the  lads  with  their  cudgels.  For  a  moment 
they  rallied  and  drew  their  knives;  then  they 
turned  and  fled  towards  their  former  place  of  hid- 
ing. 

One  of  them  turned  for  a  moment,  and  flung  his 
knife  at  Myles  with  a  deadly  aim;  but  Myles, 
quick  as  a  cat,  ducked  his  body,  and  the  weapon 

129 


flew  clattering  across  the  stony  court.  Then  he 
who  had  flung  it  turned  again  to  fly,  but  in  his 
attempt  he  had  delayed  one  instant  too  long. 
Myles  reached  him  with  a  long-arm  stroke  of  his 
cudgel  just  as  he  entered  the  passage-way,  knock- 
ing him  over  like  a  bottle,  stunned  and  sense- 
less. 

The  next  moment  the  picket-gate  was  banged  in 
their  faces  and  the  bolt  shot  in  the  staples,  and  the 
Knights  of  the  Rose  were  left  shouting  and  batter- 
ing with  their  cudgels  against  the  palings. 

By  this  time  the  uproar  of  fight  had  aroused 
those  in  the  rooms  and  offices  fronting  upon  the 
Armory  Court;  heads  were  thrust  from  many  of 
the  windows  with  the  eager  interest  that  a  fight 
always  evokes. 

"Beware!"  shouted  Myles.  "Here  they  come 
again!"  He  bore  back  towards  the  entrance  of  the 
alley-way  as  he  spoke,  those  behind  him  scattering 
to  right  and  left,  for  the  bachelors  had  rallied,  and 
were  coming  again  to  the  attack,  shouting. 

They  were  not  a  moment  too  soon  in  this  re- 
treat, either,  for  the  next  instant  the  pickets  flew 
open,  and  a  volley  of  stones  flew  after  the  retreat- 
ing Knights  of  the  Rose.  One  smote  Wilkes  upon 
the  head,  knocking  him  down  headlong.  Another 
struck  Myles  upon  his  left  shoulder,  benumbing 

130 


his  arm  from  the  finger-tips  to  the  armpit,  so  that 
he  thought  at  first  the  limb  was  broken. 

"Get  ye  behind  the  buttresses!"  shouted  those 
who  looked  down  upon  the  fight  from  the  win- 
dows— "get  ye  behind  the  buttresses!"  And  in 
answer  the  lads,  scattering  like  a  newly-flushed 
covey  of  partridges,  fled  to  and  crouched  in  the 
sheltering  angles  of  masonry  to  escape  from  the 
flying  stones. 

And  now  followed  a  lull  in  the  battle,  the  bache- 
lors fearing  to  leave  the  protection  of  the  arched 
passage-way  lest  their  retreat  should  be  cut  off, 
and  the  Knights  of  the  Rose  not  daring  to  quit  the 
shelter  of  the  buttresses  and  angles  of  the  wall  lest 
they  should  be  knocked  down  by  the  stones. 

The  bachelor  whom  Myles  had  struck  down 
with  his  cudgel  was  sitting  up  rubbing  the  back  of 
his  head,  and  Wilkes  had  gathered  his  wits  enough 
to  crawl  to  the  shelter  of  the  nearest  buttress. 
Myles,  peeping  around  the  corner  behind  which 
he  stood,  could  see  that  the  bachelors  were  gath- 
ered into  a  little  group  consulting  together.  Sud- 
denly it  broke  asunder,  and  Blunt  turned  around. 

"Ho,  Falworth!"  he  cried.  "Wilt  thou  hold  truce 
whiles  we  parley  with  ye?" 

"Aye,"  answered  Myles. 

"Wilt  thou  give  me  thine  honor  that  ye  will 

131 


hold  your  hands  from  harming  us  whiles  we  talk 
together?" 

"Yea,"  said  Myles,  "I  will  pledge  thee  mine 
honor." 

"I  accept  thy  pledge.  See!  here  we  throw  aside 
our  stones  and  lay  down  our  knives.  Lay  ye  by 
your  clubs,  and  meet  us  in  parley  at  the  horse- 
block yonder." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Myles,  and  thereupon,  standing 
his  cudgel  in  the  angle  of  the  wall,  he  stepped 
boldly  out  into  the  open  court-yard.  Those  of  his 
party  came  scatteringly  from  right  and  left,  gath- 
ering about  him;  and  the  bachelors  advanced  in  a 
body,  led  by  the  head  squire. 

"Now  what  is  it  thou  wouldst  have,  Walter 
Blunt?"  said  Myles,  when  both  parties  had  met  at 
the  horse-block. 

"It  is  to  say  this  to  thee,  Myles  Falworth,"  said 
the  other.  "One  time,  not  long  sin,  thou  didst  chal- 
lenge me  to  meet  thee  hand  to  hand  in  the  dormi- 
tory. Then  thou  didst  put  a  vile  affront  upon  me, 
for  the  which  I  ha'  brought  on  this  battle  to-day, 
for  I  knew  not  then  that  thou  wert  going  to  try  thy 
peasant  tricks  of  wrestling,  and  so,  without  guard- 
ing myself,  I  met  thee  as  thou  didst  desire." 

"But  thou  hadst  thy  knife,  and  would  have  stab- 
bed him  couldst  thou  ha'  done  so,"  said  Gascoyne. 

132 


"Thou  liest!"  said  Blunt.  "I  had  no  knife."  And 
then,  without  giving  time  to  answer,  "Thou  canst 
not  deny  that  I  met  thee  then  at  thy  bidding,  canst 
thou,  Falworth?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  "nor  haply  canst  thou  deny  it 
either."  And  at  this  covert  reminder  of  his  defeat 
Myles's  followers  laughed  scoffingly  and  Blunt  bit 
his  lip. 

"Thou  hast  said  it,"  said  he.  "Then  sin  I  met 
thee  at  thy  bidding,  I  dare  to  thee  to  meet  me  now 
at  mine,  and  to  fight  this  battle  out  between  our 
two  selves,  with  sword  and  buckler  and  bascinet 
as  gentles  should,  and  not  in  a  wrestling  match 
like  two  country  hodges." 

"Thou  art  a  coward  caitiff,  Walter  Blunt!"  burst 
out  Wilkes,  who  stood  by  with  a  swelling  lump 
upon  his  head,  already  as  big  as  a  walnut.  "Well 
thou  knowest  that  Falworth  is  no  match  for  thee 
at  broadsword  play.  Is  he  not  four  years  younger 
than  thou,  and  hast  thou  not  had  three  times  the 
practice  in  arms  that  he  hath  had?  I  say  thou  art  a 
coward  to  seek  to  fight  with  cutting  weapons." 

Blunt  made  no  answer  to  Wilkes's  speech,  but 
gazed  steadfastly  at  Myles,  with  a  scornful  smile 
curling  the  corners  of  his  lips.  Myles  stood  looking 
upon  the  ground  without  once  lifting  his  eyes,  not 
knowing  what  to  answer,  for  he  was  well  aware 

133 


that  he  was  no  match  for  Blunt  with  the  broad- 
sword. 

"Thou  art  afraid  to  fight  me,  Myles  Falworth," 
said  Blunt,  tauntingly,  and  the  bachelors  gave  a 
jeering  laugh  in  echo. 

Then  Myles  looked  up,  and  I  cannot  say  that  his 
face  was  not  a  trifle  whiter  than  usual.  "Nay,"  said 
he,  "I  am  not  afraid,  and  I  will  fight  thee,  Blunt." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Blunt.  "Then  let  us  go  at  it 
straightway  in  the  armory  yonder,  for  they  be  at 
dinner  in  the  Great  Hall,  and  just  now  there  be'st 
no  one  by  to  stay  us." 

"Thou  shalt  not  fight  him,  Myles!"  burst  out 
Gascoyne.  "He  will  murther  thee!  Thou  shalt  not 
fight  him,  I  say!" 

Myles  turned  away  without  answering  him. 

"What  is  to  do?"  called  one  of  those  who  were 
still  looking  out  of  the  windows  as  the  crowd  of 
boys  passed  beneath. 

"Blunt  and  Falworth  are  going  to  fight  it  out 
hand  to  hand  in  the  armory,"  answered  one  of  the 
bachelors,  looking  up. 

The  brawling  of  the  squires  was  a  jest  to  all  the 
adjoining  part  of  the  house.  So  the  heads  were 
withdrawn  again,  some  laughing  at  the  "sparring 
of  the  cockerels." 

But  it  was  no  jesting  matter  to  poor  Myles. 

134 


CHAPTER   16 


1 


HAVE  no  intention  to  describe  the  fight  be- 
tween Myles  Falworth  and  Walter  Blunt.  Fisti- 
cuffs of  nowadays  are  brutal  and  debasing  enough, 
but  a  fight  with  a  sharp-edged  broadsword  was 
not  only  brutal  and  debasing,  but  cruel  and 
bloody  as  well. 

From  the  very  first  of  the  fight  Myles  Falworth 
was  palpably  and  obviously  overmatched.  After 
fifteen  minutes  had  passed.  Blunt  stood  hale  and 
sound  as  at  first;  but  poor  Myles  had  more  than 
one  red  stain  of  warm  blood  upon  doublet  and 
hose,  and  more  than  one  bandage  had  been 
wrapped  by  Gascoyne  and  Wilkes  about  sore 
wounds. 

He  had  received  no  serious  injury  as  yet,  for  not 
only  was  his  body  protected  by  a  buckler,  or  small 

135 


oblong  shield,  which  he  carried  upon  his  left  arm, 
and  his  head  by  a  bascinet,  or  light  helmet  of  steel, 
but  perhaps,  after  all,  Blunt  was  not  over-anxious 
to  do  him  any  dangerous  harm.  Nevertheless, 
there  could  be  but  one  opinion  as  to  how  the  fight 
tended,  and  Myles's  friends  were  gloomy  and 
downcast;  the  bachelors  proportionately  exultant, 
shouting  with  laughter,  and  taunting  Myles  at 
every  unsuccessful  stroke. 

Once,  as  he  drew  back  panting,  leaning  upon 
Gascoyne's  shoulder,  the  faithful  friend  whis- 
pered, with  trembling  lips:  "Oh,  dear  Myles,  carry 
it  no  further.  Thou  hurtest  him  not,  and  he  will 
slay  thee  ere  he  have  done  with  thee." 

Thereupon  Blunt,  who  caught  the  drift  of  the 
speech,  put  in  a  word.  "Thou  art  sore  hurt,  Myles 
Falworth,"  said  he,  "and  I  would  do  thee  no  griev- 
ous harm.  Yield  thee  and  own  thyself  beaten,  and 
I  will  forgive  thee.  Thou  hast  fought  a  good  fight, 
and  there  is  no  shame  in  yielding  now." 

"Never!"  cried  Myles,  hoarsely — "never  will  I 
yield  me!  Thou  mayst  slay  me,  Walter  Blunt,  and 
I  reck  not  if  thou  dost  do  so,  but  never  else  wilt 
thou  conquer  me." 

There  was  a  tone  of  desperation  in  his  voice  that 
made  all  look  serious. 

"Nay,"  said  Blunt;  "I  will  fight  thee  no  more, 

136 


Myles  Falworth;  thou  hast  had  enough." 

"By  heavens!"  cried  Myles,  grinding  his  teeth, 
"thou  shalt  fight  me,  thou  coward!  Thou  hast 
brought  this  fight  upon  us,  and  either  thou  or  I  get 
our  quittance  here.  Let  go,  Gascoyne!"  he  cried, 
shaking  loose  his  friend's  hold;  "I  tell  thee  he  shall 
fight  me!" 

From  that  moment  Blunt  began  to  lose  his  head. 
No  doubt  he  had  not  thought  of  such  a  serious 
fight  as  this  when  he  had  given  his  challenge,  and 
there  was  a  savage  bull-dog  tenacity  about  Myles 
that  could  not  but  have  had  a  somewhat  demoral- 
izing effect  upon  him. 

A  few  blows  were  given  and  taken,  and  then 
Myles's  friends  gave  a  shout.  Blunt  drew  back,  and 
placed  his  hand  to  his  shoulder.  When  he  drew  it 
away  again  it  was  stained  with  red,  and  another 
red  stain  grew  and  spread  rapidly  down  the  sleeve 
of  his  jacket.  He  stared  at  his  hand  for  a  moment 
with  a  half-dazed  look,  and  then  glanced  quickly 
to  right  and  left. 

"I  will  fight  no  more,"  said  he,  sullenly. 

"Then  yield  thee!"  cried  Myles,  exultantly. 

The  triumphant  shouts  of  the  Knights  of  the 
Rose  stung  Blunt  like  a  lash,  and  the  battle  began 
again.  Perhaps  some  of  the  older  lads  were  of  a 
mind   to  interfere  at  this  point,  certainly  some 

137 


looked  very  serious,  but  before  they  interposed, 
the  fight  was  ended. 

Blunt,  grinding  his  teeth,  struck  one  undercut  at 
his  opponent — the  same  undercut  that  Myles  had 
that  time  struck  at  Sir  James  Lee  at  the  knight's 
bidding  when  he  first  practised  at  the  Devlen  pels. 
Myles  met  the  blow  as  Sir  James  had  met  the  blow 
that  he  had  given,  and  then  struck  in  return  as  Sir 
James  had  struck — full  and  true.  The  bascinet  that 
Blunt  wore  glanced  the  blow  partly,  but  not  en- 
tirely. Myles  felt  his  sword  bite  through  the  light 
steel  cap,  and  Blunt  dropped  his  own  blade  clat- 
tering upon  the  floor.  It  was  all  over  in  an  instant, 
but  in  that  instant  what  he  saw  was  stamped  upon 
Myles's  mind  with  an  indelible  imprint.  He  saw 
the  young  man  stagger  backward;  he  saw  the  eyes 
roll  upward;  and  a  red  streak  shoot  out  from  under 
the  cap  and  run  down  across  the  cheek. 

Blunt  reeled  half  around,  and  then  fell  prostrate 
upon  his  face;  and  Myles  stood  staring  at  him  with 
the  delirious  turmoil  of  his  battle  dissolving  ra- 
pidly into  a  dumb  fear  at  that  which  he  had  done. 

Once  again  he  had  won  the  victory — but  what  a 
victory!  "Is  he  dead?"  he  whispered  to  Gascoyne. 

"I  know  not,"  said  Gascoyne,  with  a  very  pale 
face.  "But  come  away,  Myles."  And  he  led  his 
friend  out  of  the  room. 


138 


'Belike  thou  sought  to  take  this  lad's  life/'  said  Sir  James. 


Some  little  while  later  one  of  the  bachelors 
came  to  the  dormitory  where  Myles,  his  wounds 
smarting  and  aching  and  throbbing,  lay  stretched 
upon  his  cot,  and  with  a  very  serious  face  bade 
him  to  go  presently  to  Sir  James,  who  had  just 
come  from  dinner,  and  was  then  in  his  office. 

By  this  time  Myles  knew  that  he  had  not  slain 
his  enemy,  and  his  heart  was  light  in  spite  of  the 
coming  interview.  There  was  no  one  in  the  office 
but  Sir  James  and  himself,  and  Myles,  without 
concealing  anything,  told,  point  by  point,  the 
whole  trouble.  Sir  James  sat  looking  steadily  at 
him  for  a  while  after  he  had  ended. 

"Never,"  said  he,  presently,  "did  I  know  any  one 
of  ye  squires,  in  all  the  time  that  I  have  been  here, 
get  himself  into  so  many  broils  as  thou,  Myles 
Falworth.  Belike  thou  sought  to  take  this  lad's 
life." 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  earnestly;  "God  forbid!" 

"Ne'theless,"  said  Sir  James,  "thou  fetched  him 
a  main  shrewd  blow;  and  it  is  by  good  hap,  and  no 
fault  of  thine,  that  he  will  live  to  do  more  mischief 
yet.  This  is  thy  second  venture  at  him;  the  third 
time,  haply,  thou  wilt  end  him  for  good."  Then 
suddenly  assuming  his  grimmest  and  sternest 
manner:  "Now,  sirrah,  do  I  put  a  stop  to  this,  and 
no  more  shall  ye  fight  with  edged  tools.  Get  thee 

139 


to  the  dormitory,  and  abide  there  a  full  week 
without  coming  forth.  Michael  shall  bring  thee 
bread  and  water  twice  a  day  for  that  time.  That  is 
all  the  food  thou  shaft  have,  and  we  will  see  if  that 
fare  will  not  cool  thy  hot  humors  withal." 

Myles  had  expected  a  punishment  so  much 
more  severe  than  that  which  was  thus  meted  to 
him,  that  in  the  sudden  relief  he  broke  into  a  con- 
vulsive laugh,  and  then,  with  a  hasty  sweep, 
wiped  a  brimming  moisture  from  his  eyes. 

Sir  James  looked  keenly  at  him  for  a  moment. 
"Thou  art  white  i'  the  face."  said  he.  "Art  thou 
wounded  very  sorely?" 

"Nay"  said  Myles,  "it  is  not  much;  but  I  be  sick 
in  my  stomach." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Sir  James;  "I  know  that  feeling 
well.  It  is  thus  that  one  always  feeleth  in  coming 
out  from  a  sore  battle  when  one  hath  suffered 
wounds  and  lost  blood.  An  thou  wouldst  keep  thy- 
self hale,  keep  thyself  from  needless  fighting.  Now 
go  thou  to  the  dormitory,  and,  as  I  said,  come  thou 
not  forth  again  for  a  week.  Stay,  sirrah!"  he  added; 
"I  will  send  Georgebarber  to  thee  to  look  to  thy 
sores.  Green  wounds  are  best  drawn  and  salved 
ere  they  grow  cold." 

I  wonder  what  Myles  would  have  thought  had 
he  known  that  so  soon  as  he  had  left  the  office.  Sir 


140 


James  had  gone  straight  to  the  Earl  and  recounted 
the  whole  matter  to  him,  with  a  deal  of  dry  gusto, 
and  that  the  Earl  listened  laughing. 

"Aye,"  said  he,  when  Sir  James  had  done,  "the 
boy  hath  mettle,  sure.  Nevertheless,  we  must 
transplant  this  fellow  Blunt  to  the  office  of  gen- 
tleman-in-waiting. He  must  be  old  enough  now, 
and  gin  he  stayeth  in  his  present  place,  either  he 
will  do  the  boy  a  harm,  or  the  boy  will  do  him  a 
harm." 

So  Blunt  never  came  again  to  trouble  the 
squires'  quarters;  and  thereafter  the  youngsters 
rendered  no  more  service  to  the  elders. 

Myles's  first  great  fight  in  life  was  won. 


141 


CHAPTER  17 


xr, 


HE  SUMMER  passcd  away,  and  the  bleak  fall 
came.  Myles  had  long  since  accepted  his  position 
as  one  set  apart  from  the  others  of  his  kind,  and 
had  resigned  himself  to  the  evident  fact  that  he 
was  never  to  serve  in  the  household  in  waiting 
upon  the  Earl.  I  cannot  say  that  it  never  troubled 
him,  but  in  time  there  came  a  compensation  of 
which  I  shall  have  presently  to  speak. 

And  then  he  had  so  much  the  more  time  to  him- 
self. The  other  lads  were  sometimes  occupied  by 
their  household  duties  when  sports  were  afoot  in 
which  they  would  liked  to  have  taken  part.  Myles 
was  always  free  to  enter  into  any  matter  of  the 
kind  after  his  daily  exercise  had  been  performed  at 
the  pels,  the  butts,  or  the  tilting-court. 

But  even  though  he  was  never  called  to  do  ser- 

142 


vice  in  "my  Lord's  house,"  he  was  not  long  in  gain- 
ing a  sort  of  second-hand  knowledge  of  all  the 
family.  My  Lady,  a  thin,  sallow,  faded  dame,  not 
yet  past  middle  age,  but  looking  ten  years  older. 
The  Lady  Anne,  the  daughter  of  the  house;  a  tall, 
thin,  dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  handsome  young 
dame  of  twenty  or  twenty -one  years  of  age,  hawk- 
nosed  like  her  father,  and  silent,  proud,  and 
haughty,  Myles  heard  the  squires  say.  Lady  Alice, 
the  Earl  of  Mackworth's  niece  and  ward,  a  great 
heiress  in  her  own  right,  a  strikingly  pretty  black- 
eyed  girl  of  fourteen  or  fifteen. 

These  composed  the  Earl's  personal  family;  but 
besides  them  was  Lord  George  Beaumont,  his 
Earl's  brother,  and  him  Myles  soon  came  to  know 
better  than  any  of  the  chief  people  of  the  castle 
excepting  Sir  James  Lee. 

For  since  Myles's  great  battle  in  the  armory, 
Lord  George  had  taken  a  laughing  sort  of  liking  to 
the  lad,  encouraging  him  at  times  to  talk  of  his 
adventures,  and  of  his  hopes  and  aspirations. 

Perhaps  the  Earl's  younger  brother — who  was 
himself  somewhat  a  soldier  of  fortune,  having 
fought  in  Spain,  France,  and  Germany — felt  a  cer- 
tain kinship  in  spirit  with  the  adventurous  young- 
ster who  had  his  unfriended  way  to  make  in  the 
world.    However    that    might   have    been.    Lord 


143 


George  was  very  kind  and  friendly  to  the  lad,  and 
the  willing  service  that  Myles  rendered  him  rec- 
onciled him  not  a  little  to  the  Earl's  obvious  ne- 
glect. 

Besides  these  of  the  more  immediate  family  of 
the  Earl  were  a  number  of  knights,  ladies,  and 
gentlemen,  some  of  them  cadets,  some  of  them 
retainers,  of  the  house  of  Beaumont,  for  the 
princely  nobles  of  those  days  lived  in  state  little 
less  royal  than  royalty  itself. 

Most  of  the  knights  and  gentlemen  Myles  soon 
came  to  know  by  sight,  meeting  them  in  Lord 
George's  apartments  in  the  south  wing  of  the  great 
house,  and  some  of  them,  following  the  lead  of 
Lord  George,  singled  him  out  for  friendly  notice, 
giving  him  a  nod  or  a  word  in  passing. 

Every  season  has  its  pleasures  for  boys,  and  the 
constant  change  that  they  bring  is  one  of  the 
greatest  delights  of  boyhood's  days. 

All  of  us,  as  we  grow  older,  have  in  our  memory 
pictures  of  by-gone  times  that  are  somehow  more 
than  usually  vivid,  the  colors  of  some  not  blurring 
by  time  as  others  do.  One  of  which,  in  remember- 
ing, always  filled  Myles's  heart  in  after-years  with 
an  indefinable  pleasure,  was  the  recollection  of 
standing  with  others  of  his  fellow  squires  in  the 

144 


crisp  brown  autumn  grass  of  the  paddock,  and 
shooting  with  the  long-bow  at  wildfowl,  which, 
when  the  east  wind  was  straining,  flew  low  over- 
head to  pitch  to  the  lake  in  the  forbidden  pre- 
cincts of  the  deer  park  beyond  the  brow  of  the 
hill.  More  than  once  a  brace  or  two  of  these  wild- 
fowl, shot  in  their  southward  flight  by  the  lads  and 
cooked  by  fat,  good-natured  Mother  Joan,  graced 
the  rude  mess-table  of  the  squires  in  the  long  hall, 
and  even  the  toughest  and  fishiest  drake,  so  the 
fruit  of  their  skill,  had  a  savor  that,  somehow  or 
other,  the  daintiest  fare  lacked  in  after-years. 

Then  fall  passed  and  winter  came,  bleak,  cold, 
and  dreary — not  winter  as  we  know  it  nowadays, 
with  warm  fires  and  bright  lights  to  make  the  long 
nights  sweet  and  cheerful  with  comfort,  but  win- 
ter with  all  its  grimness  and  sternness.  In  the  great 
cold  stone-walled  castles  of  those  days  the  only 
fire  and  almost  the  only  light  were  those  from  the 
huge  blazing  logs  that  roared  and  crackled  in  the 
great  open  stone  fireplace,  around  which  the  folks 
gathered,  sheltering  their  faces  as  best  they  could 
from  the  scorching  heat,  and  cloaking  their  shoul- 
ders from  the  biting  cold,  for  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room,  where  giant  shadows  swayed  and  bowed 
and  danced  huge  and  black  against  the  high  walls, 
the  white  frost  glistened  in  the  moonlight  on  the 

145 


stone  pavements,  and  the  breath  went  up  like 
smoke. 

In  those  days  were  no  books  to  read,  but  at  the 
best  only  rude  stories  and  jests,  recited  by  some 
strolling  mummer  or  minstrel  to  the  listening  cir- 
cle, gathered  around  the  blaze  and  welcoming  the 
coarse,  gross  jests,  and  coarser,  grosser  songs  with 
roars  of  boisterous  laughter. 

Yet  bleak  and  dreary  as  was  the  winter  in  those 
days,  and  cold  and  biting  as  was  the  frost  in  the 
cheerless,  windy  halls  and  corridors  of  the  castle, 
it  was  not  without  its  joys  to  the  young  lads;  for 
then,  as  now,  boys  could  find  pleasure  even  in 
slushy  weather,  when  the  sodden  snow  is  fit  for 
nothing  but  to  make  snowballs  of. 

Thrice  that  bitter  winter  the  moat  was  frozen 
over,  and  the  lads,  making  themselves  skates  of 
marrow-bones,  which  they  bought  from  the  hall 
cook  at  a  groat  a  pair,  went  skimming  over  the 
smooth  surface,  red-cheeked  and  shouting,  while 
the  crows  and  the  jackdaws  looked  down  at  them 
from  the  top  of  the  bleak  gray  walls. 

Then  at  Yule-tide,  which  was  somewhat  of  a 
rude  semblance  to  the  Merry  Christmas  season  of 
our  day,  a  great  feast  was  held  in  the  hall,  and  all 
the  castle  folk  were  fed  in  the  presence  of  the  Earl 
and  the  Countess.  Oxen  and  sheep  were  roasted 
whole;  huge  suet  puddings,  made  of  barley  meal 

146 


sweetened  with  honey  and  stuffed  with  plums, 
were  boiled  in  great  caldrons  in  the  open  court- 
yard; whole  barrels  of  ale  and  malmsey  were 
broached,  and  all  the  folk,  gentle  and  simple,  were 
bidden  to  the  feast.  Afterwards  the  minstrels 
danced  and  played  a  rude  play,  and  in  the  evening 
a  miracle  show  was  performed  on  a  raised  plat- 
form in  the  north  hall. 

For  a  week  afterwards  the  castle  was  fed  upon 
the  remains  of  the  good  things  left  from  that  great 
feast,  until  everyone  grew  to  loathe  fine  victuals, 
and  longed  for  honest  beef  and  mustard  again. 

Then  at  last  in  that  constant  change  the  winter 
was  gone,  and  even  the  lads  who  had  enjoyed  its 
passing  were  glad  when  the  winds  blew  warm 
once  more,  and  the  grass  showed  green  in  sunny 
places,  and  the  leader  of  the  wild-fowl  blew  his 
horn,  as  they  who  in  the  fall  had  flown  to  the 
south  flew,  arrow-like,  northward  again;  when  the 
buds  swelled  and  the  leaves  burst  forth  once  more, 
and  crocuses  and  then  daffodils  gleamed  in  the 
green  grass,  like  sparks  and  flames  of  gold. 

With  the  spring  came  the  out-door  sports  of  the 
season;  among  others  that  of  ball — for  boys  were 
boys,  and  played  at  ball  even  in  those  faraway 
days — a  game  called  trap-ball.  Even  yet  in  some 
parts  of  England  it  is  played  just  as  it  was  in 
Myles  Falworth's  day,  and  enjoyed  just  as  Myles 

147 


and  his  friends  enjoyed  it. 

So  now  that  the  sun  was  warm  and  the  weather 
pleasant  the  game  of  trap-ball  was  in  full  swing 
every  afternoon,  the  play-ground  being  an  open 
space  between  the  wall  that  surrounded  the  castle 
grounds  and  that  of  the  privy  garden — the  pleas- 
ance  in  which  the  ladies  of  the  Earl's  family  took 
the  air  every  day,  and  upon  which  their  apart- 
ments opened. 

Now  one  fine  breezy  afternoon,  when  the  lads 
were  shouting  and  playing  at  this,  then  their 
favorite  game,  Myles  himself  was  at  the  trap 
barehanded  and  barearmed.  The  wind  was  blow- 
ing from  behind  him,  and,  aided  perhaps  by  it,  he 
had  already  struck  three  of  four  balls  nearly  the 
whole  length  of  the  court — an  unusual  distance — 
and  several  of  the  lads  had  gone  back  almost  as  far 
as  the  wall  of  the  privy  garden  to  catch  any  ball 
that  might  chance  to  fly  as  far  as  that.  Then  once 
more  Myles  struck,  throwing  all  his  strength  into 
the  blow.  The  ball  shot  up  into  the  air,  and  when 
it  fell,  it  was  to  drop  within  the  privy  garden. 

The  shouts  of  the  young  players  were  instantly 
stilled,  and  Gascoyne,  who  stood  nearest  Myles, 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  belt,  giving  a  long  shrill 
whistle. 

"This  time  thou  hast  struck  us  all  out,  Myles," 
said  he.  "There  be  no  more  play  for  us  until  we  get 

148 


another  ball." 

The  outfielders  came  slowly  trooping  in  until 
they  had  gathered  in  a  little  circle  around  Myles. 

"I  could  not  help  it,"  said  Myles,  in  answer  to 
their  grumbling.  "How  knew  I  the  ball  would  fly 
so  far?  But  if  I  ha'  lost  the  ball,  I  can  get  it  again.  I 
will  climb  the  wall  for  it." 

"Thou  shalt  do  naught  of  the  kind,  Myles,"  said 
Gascoyne,  hastily.  "Thou  art  as  mad  as  a  March 
hare  to  think  of  such  a  venture!  Wouldst  get  thy- 
self shot  with  a  bolt  betwixt  the  ribs,  like  poor 
Diccon  Cook?" 

Of  all  places  about  the  castle  the  privy  garden 
was  perhaps  the  most  sacred.  It  was  a  small  plot  of 
ground,  only  a  few  rods  long  and  wide,  and  was 
kept  absolutely  private  for  the  use  of  the  Countess 
and  her  family.  Only  a  little  while  before  Myles 
had  first  come  to  Devlen,  one  of  the  cook's  men 
had  been  found  climbing  the  wall,  whereupon  the 
soldier  who  saw  him  shot  him  with  his  cross  bow. 
The  poor  fellow  dropped  from  the  wall  into  the 
garden,  and  when  they  found  him,  he  still  held  a 
bunch  of  flowers  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  per- 
haps been  gathering  for  his  sweetheart. 

Had  Myles  seen  him  carried  on  a  litter  to  the 
infirmary  as  Gascoyne  and  some  of  the  others  had 
done,  he  might  have  thought  twice  before  ventur- 
ing to  enter  the  ladies'  private  garden.  As  it  was, 

149 


he  only  shook  his  stubborn  head,  and  said  again,  "I 
will  climb  the  wall  and  fetch  it." 

Now  at  the  lower  extremity  of  the  court,  and 
about  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  distant  from  the  gar- 
den wall,  there  grew  a  pear-tree,  some  of  the 
branches  of  which  overhung  into  the  garden  be- 
yond. So,  first  making  sure  that  no  one  was  looking 
that  way,  and  bidding  the  others  keep  a  sharp 
lookout,  Myles  shinned  up  this  tree,  and  choosing 
one  of  the  thicker  limbs,  climbed  out  upon  it  for 
some  little  distance.  Then  lowering  his  body,  he 
hung  at  arm's-length,  the  branch  bending  with  his 
weight,  and  slowly  let  himself  down  hand  under 
hand,  until  at  last  he  hung  directly  over  the  top  of 
the  wall,  and  perhaps  a  foot  above  it.  Below  him 
he  could  see  the  leafy  top  of  an  arbor  covered  with 
a  thick  growth  of  clematis,  and  even  as  he  hung 
there  he  noticed  the  broad  smooth  walks,  the 
grassy  terrace  in  front  of  the  Countess's  apart- 
ments in  the  distance,  the  quaint  flower-beds,  the 
yew-trees  trimmed  into  odd  shapes,  and  even  the 
deaf  old  gardener  working  bare-armed  in  the  sun- 
light at  a  flower-bed  in  the  far  corner  by  the  tool- 
house. 

The  top  of  the  wall  was  pointed  like  a  house 
roof,  and  immediately  below  him  was  covered  by 
a   thick   growth   of   green   moss,    and    it   flashed 

150 


through  his  mind  as  he  hung  there  that  maybe  it 
would  offer  a  very  slippery  foothold  for  one  drop- 
ping upon  the  steep  slopes  of  the  top.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  draw  back  now. 

Bracing  himself  for  a  moment,  he  loosed  his 
hold  upon  the  limb  above.  The  branch  flew  back 
with  a  rush,  and  he  dropped,  striving  to  grasp  the 
sloping  angle  with  his  feet.  Instantly  the  treacher- 
ous slippery  moss  slid  away  from  beneath  him;  he 
made  a  vain  clutch  at  the  wall,  his  fingers  sliding 
over  the  cold  stones,  then,  with  a  sharp  exclama- 
tion, down  he  pitched  bodily  into  the  garden  be- 
neath! A  thousand  thoughts  flew  through  his  brain 
like  a  cloud  of  flies,  and  then  a  leafy  greenness 
seemed  to  strike  up  against  him.  A  splintering 
crash  sounded  in  his  ears  as  the  lattice  top  of  the 
arbor  broke  under  him,  and  with  one  final  clutch 
at  the  empty  air  he  fell  heavily  upon  the  ground 
beneath. 

He  heard  a  shrill  scream  that  seemed  to  find  an 
instant  echo;  even  as  he  fell  he  had  a  vision  of 
faces  and  bright  colors,  and  when  he  sat  up,  dazed 
and  bewildered,  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  Lady  Anne,  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
and  her  cousin,  the  Lady  Alice,  who  clutching  one 
another  tightly,  stood  staring  at  him  with  wide 
scared  eyes. 

151 


CHAPTER   18 


jfc 


OR  A  little  time  there  was  a  pause  of  deep 
silence,  during  which  the  fluttering  leaves  came 
drifting  down  from  the  broken  arbor  above. 

It  was  the  Lady  Anne  who  first  spoke.  "Who  art 
thou,  and  whence  comest  thou?"  said  she,  tremu- 
lously. 

Then  Myles  gathered  himself  up  sheepishly. 
"My  name  is  Myles  Falworth,"  said  he,  "and  I  am 
one  of  the  squires  of  the  body." 

"Oh!  aye!"  said  the  Lady  Alice,  suddenly.  "Me 
thought  I  knew  thy  face.  Art  thou  not  the  young 
man  that  I  have  seen  in  Lord  George's  train?" 

"Yes,  lady,"  said  Myles,  wrapping  and  twining  a 
piece  of  the  broken  vine  in  and  out  among  his 
fingers.  "Lord  George  hath  often  had  me  of  late 
about  his  person." 

152 


"And  what  dost  thou  do  here,  sirrah?"  said  Lady 
Anne,  angrily.  "How  darest  thou  come  so  into  our 
garden?" 

"I  meant  not  to  come  as  I  did,"  said  Myles, 
clumsily,  and  with  a  face  hot  and  red.  "But  I 
slipped  over  the  top  of  the  wall  and  fell  hastily 
into  the  garden.  Truly,  lady,  I  meant  ye  no  harm 
or  fright  thereby." 

He  looked  so  drolly  abashed  as  he  stood  before 
them,  with  his  clothes  torn  and  soiled  from  the 
fall,  his  face  red,  and  his  eyes  downcast,  all  the 
while  industriously  twisting  the  piece  of  clematis 
in  and  around  his  fingers,  that  Lady  Anne's  half- 
frightened  anger  could  not  last.  She  and  her 
cousin  exchanged  glances,  and  smiled  at  one  an- 
other. 

"But,"  said  she  at  last,  trying  to  draw  her  pretty 
brows  together  into  a  frown,  "tell  me;  why  didst 
thou  seek  to  climb  the  wall?" 

"I  came  to  seek  a  ball,"  said  Myles,  "which  I 
struck  over  hither  from  the  court  beyond." 

"And  wouldst  thou  come  into  our  privy  garden 
for  no  better  reason  than  to  find  a  ball?"  said  the 
young  lady. 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "it  was  not  so  much  to  find 
the  ball,  but,  in  good  sooth,  I  did  truly  strike  it 
harder  than  need  be,  and  so,  gin  I  lost  the  ball,  I 

153 


could  do  no  less  than  come  and  find  it  again,  else 
our  sport  is  done  for  the  day.  So  it  was  I  came 
hither." 

The  two  young  ladies  had  by  now  recovered 
from  their  fright.  The  Lady  Anne  slyly  nudged  her 
cousin  with  her  elbow,  and  the  younger  could  not 
suppress  a  half-nervous  laugh.  Myles  heard  it,  and 
felt  his  face  grow  hotter  and  redder  than  ever. 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  Anne,  "I  do  believe  Master 
Giles — " 

"My  name  be'st  Myles,"  corrected  Myles. 

"Very  well,  then.  Master  Myles,  I  say  I  do  be- 
lieve that  thou  meanest  no  harm  in  coming  hither; 
ne'theless  it  was  ill  of  thee  so  to  do.  An  my  father 
should  find  thee  here,  he  would  have  thee 
shrewdly  punished  for  such  trespassing.  Dost 
thou  not  know  that  no  one  is  permitted  to  enter 
this  place — no,  not  even  my  uncle  George?  One 
fellow  who  came  hither  to  steal  apples  once  had 
his  ears  shaven  close  to  his  head,  and  not  more 
than  a  year  ago  one  of  the  cook's  men  who 
climbed  the  wall  early  one  morning  was  shot  by 
the  watchman." 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  "I  knew  of  him  who  was  shot, 
and  it  did  go  somewhat  against  my  stomach  to 
venture,  knowing  what  had  happed  to  him. 
Ne'theless,  an  I  gat  not  the  ball,  how  were  we  to 
play  more  to-day  at  the  trap?" 

154 


Myles  entertains  the  Lady  Anne  and  the  Lady  Alice  loith  his  adventures. 


"Marry,  thou  art  a  bold  fellow,  I  do  believe  me," 
said  the  young  lady,  "and  sin  thou  hast  come  in 
the  face  of  such  peril  to  get  thy  ball,  thou  shalt  not 
go  away  empty.  Whither  didst  thou  strike  it?" 

"Over  yonder  by  the  cherry-tree,"  said  Myles, 
jerking  his  head  in  that  direction.  "An  I  may  go 
get  it,  I  will  trouble  ye  no  more."  As  he  spoke  he 
made  a  motion  to  leave  them. 

"Stay!"  said  the  Lady  Anne,  hastily;  "remain 
where  thou  art.  An  thou  cross  the  open,  some  one 
may  haply  see  thee  from  the  house,  and  will  give 
the  alarm,  and  thou  wilt  be  lost.  I  will  go  get  thy 
ball." 

And  so  she  left  Myles  and  her  cousin,  crossing 
the  little  plots  of  grass  and  skirting  the  rosebushes 
to  the  cherry-tree. 

When  Myles  found  himself  alone  with  Lady 
Alice,  he  knew  not  where  to  look  or  what  to  do, 
but  twisted  the  piece  of  clematis  which  he  still 
held  in  and  out  more  industriously  than  ever. 

Lady  Alice  watched  him  with  dancing  eyes  for 
a  little  while.  "Haply  thou  wilt  spoil  that  poor 
vine,"  said  she  by-and-by,  breaking  the  silence  and 
laughing,  then  turning  suddenly  serious  again. 
"Didst  thou  hurt  thyself  by  thy  fall?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  looking  up,  "such  a  fall  as 
that  was  no  great  matter.  Many  and  many  a  time  I 
have  had  worse." 


155 


"Hast  thou  so?"  said  the  Lady  Alice.  "Thou 
didst  fright  me  parlously,  and  my  coz  likewise." 

Myles  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  blurted 
out,  "Thereat  I  grieve,  for  thee  I  would  not  fright 
for  all  the  world." 

The  young  lady  laughed  and  blushed.  "All  the 
world  is  a  great  matter,"  said  she. 

"Yea,"  said  he,  "it  is  a  great  matter;  but  it  is  a 
greater  matter  to  fright  thee,  and  so  I  would  not 
do  it  for  that,  and  more." 

The  young  lady  laughed  again,  but  she  did  not 
say  anything  further,  and  a  space  of  silence  fell 
so  long  that  by-and-by  she  forced  herself  to  say, 
"My  cousin  findeth  not  the  ball  presently." 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  briefly,  and  then  again  nei- 
ther spoke,  until  by-and-by  the  Lady  Anne  came, 
bringing  the  ball.  Myles  felt  a  great  sense  of  relief 
at  that  coming,  and  yet  was  somehow  sorry.  Then 
he  took  the  ball,  and  knew  enough  to  bow  his  ac- 
knowledgment in  a  manner  neither  ill  nor  awk- 
ward. 

"Didst  thou  hurt  thyself?"  asked  Lady  Anne. 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  giving  himself  a  shake;  "seest 
thou  not  I  be  whole,  limb  and  bone?  Nay,  I  have 
had  shrewdly  worse  falls  than  that.  Once  I  fell  out 
of  an  oak-tree  down  by  the  river  and  upon  a  root, 
and  bethought  me  I  did  break  a  rib  or  more.  And 

156 


then  one  time  when  I  was  a  boy  in  Crosbey-Dale 
— that  was  where  I  lived  before  I  came  hither — I 
did  catch  me  hold  of  the  blade  of  the  windmill, 
thinking  it  was  moving  slowly,  and  that  I  would 
have  a  ride  i'  th'  air,  and  so  was  like  to  have  had  a 
fall  ten  thousand  times  worse  than  this." 

"Oh,  tell  us  more  of  that!"  said  the  Lady  Anne, 
eagerly.  "I  did  never  hear  of  such  an  adventure 
as  that.  Come,  coz,  and  sit  down  here  upon  the 
bench,  and  let  us  have  him  tell  us  all  of  that  hap- 
pening." 

Now  the  lads  upon  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
had  been  whistling  furtively  for  some  time,  not 
knowing  whether  Myles  had  broken  his  neck  or 
had  come  off  scot-free  from  his  fall.  "I  would  like 
right  well  to  stay  with  ye,"  said  he,  irresolutely, 
"and  would  gladly  tell  ye  that  and  more  an  ye 
would  have  me  to  do  so;  but  hear  ye  not  my 
friends  call  me  from  beyond?  Mayhap  they  think  I 
break  my  back,  and  are  calling  to  see  whether  I  be 
alive  or  no.  An  I  might  whistle  them  answer  and 
toss  me  this  ball  to  them,  all  would  then  be  well, 
and  they  would  know  that  I  was  not  hurt,  and  so, 
haply,  would  go  away." 

"Then  answer  them,"  said  the  Lady  Anne,  "and 
tell  us  of  that  thing  thou  spokest  of  anon — how 
thou  tookest  a  ride  upon  the  windmill.  We  young 

157 


ladies  do  hear  little  of  such  matters,  not  being  al- 
lowed to  talk  with  lads.  All  that  we  hear  of  perils 
are  of  knights  and  ladies  and  jousting,  and  such 
like.  It  would  pleasure  us  right  well  to  have  thee 
tell  of  thy  adventures." 

So  Myles  tossed  back  the  ball,  and  whistled  in 
answer  to  his  friends. 

Then  he  told  the  two  young  ladies  not  only  of 
his  adventure  upon  the  windmill,  but  also  of  other 
boyish  escapades,  and  told  them  well,  with  a 
straightforward  smack  and  vigor,  for  he  enjoyed 
adventure  and  loved  to  talk  of  it.  In  a  little  while 
he  had  regained  his  ease;  his  shyness  and  awk- 
wardness left  him,  and  nothing  remained  but  the 
delightful  fact  that  he  was  really  and  actually  talk- 
ing to  two  young  ladies,  and  that  with  just  as 
much  ease  and  infinitely  more  pleasure  than  could 
be  had  in  discourse  with  his  fellow-squires.  But  at 
last  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  "Marry,"  said  he, 
with  a  half-sigh,  "methinks  I  did  never  ha'  so 
sweet  and  pleasant  a  time  in  all  my  life  before. 
Never  did  I  know  a  real  lady  to  talk  with,  saving 
only  my  mother,  and  I  do  tell  ye  plain  methinks  I 
would  rathei  talk  with  ye  than  with  any  he  in 
Christendom — saving,  perhaps,  only  my  friend 
Gascoyne.  I  would  I  might  come  hither  again." 

The  honest  frankness  of  his  speech  was  irresisti- 
ble;  the  two  girls  exchanged   glances  and   then 

158 


began  laughing.  "Truly,"  said  Lady  Anne,  who,  as 
was  said  before,  was  some  three  or  four  years 
older  than  Myles,  "thou  art  a  bold  lad  to  ask  such 
a  thing.  How  wouldst  thou  come  hither?  Wouldst 
tumble  through  our  clematis  arbor  again,  as  thou 
didst  this  day?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  "I  would  not  do  that  again, 
but  if  ye  will  bid  me  do  so,  I  will  find  the  means  to 
come  hither." 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  Anne,  "I  dare  not  bid  thee  do 
such  a  foolhardy  thing.  Nevertheless,  if  thou  hast 
the  courage  to  come — " 

"Yea,"  said  Myles,  eagerly,  "I  have  the  cour- 
age." 

"Then,  if  thou  hast  so,  we  will  be  here  in  the 
garden  on  Saturday  next  at  this  hour.  I  would  like 
right  well  to  hear  more  of  thy  adventures.  But 
what  didst  thou  say  was  thy  name?  I  have  forgot  it 
again." 

"It  is  Myles  Falworth." 

"Then  we  shall  yclep  thee  Sir  Myles,  for  thou 
art  a  soothly  errant-knight.  And  stay!  Every  knight 
must  have  a  lady  to  serve.  How  wouldst  thou  like 
my  Cousin  Alice  here  for  thy  true  lady?" 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  eagerly,  "I  would  like  it  right 
well."  And  then  he  blushed  fiery  red  at  his  bold- 
ness. 

"I  want  no  errant-knight  to  serve  me,"  said  the 

159 


Lady  Alice,  blushing,  in  answer.  "Thou  dost  ill 
tease  me,  coz!  An  thou  art  so  free  in  choosing  him 
a  lady  to  serve,  thou  mayst  choose  him  thyself  for 
thy  pains." 

"Nay,"  said  the  Lady  Anne,  laughing;  "I  say 
thou  shalt  be  his  true  lady,  and  he  shall  be  thy  true 
knight.  Who  knows?  Perchance  he  may  serven 
thee  in  some  wondrous  adventure,  like  as  Chaucer 
telleth  of.  But  now.  Sir  Errant-Knight,  thou  must 
take  thy  leave  of  us,  and  I  must  e'en  let  thee  priv- 
ily out  by  the  postern-wicket.  And  if  thou  wilt 
take  the  risk  upon  thee  and  come  hither  again, 
prithee  be  wary  in  that  coming,  lest  in  venturing 
thou  have  thine  ears  clipped  in  most  unknightly 
fashion." 

That  evening,  as  he  and  Gascoyne  sat  together 
on  a  bench  under  the  trees  in  the  great  quad- 
rangle, Myles  told  of  his  adventure  of  the  after- 
noon, and  his  friend  listened  with  breathless  inter- 
est. 

"But,  Myles,"  cried  Gascoyne,  "did  the  Lady 
Anne  never  once  seem  proud  and  unkind?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "only  at  first,  when  she  chid 
me  for  falling  through  the  roof  of  their  arbor.  And 
to  think,  Francis!  Lady  Anne  herself  bade  me  hold 
the  Lady  Alice  as  my  true  lady,  and  to  serve  her  in 
all  knightliness!"  Then  he  told  his  friend  that  he 
was  going  to  the  privy  garden  again  on  the  next 

160 


Saturday,  and  that  the  Lady  Anne  had  given  him 
permission  so  to  do. 

Gascoyne  gave  a  long,  wondering  whistle,  and 
then  sat  quite  still,  staring  into  the  sky.  By-and-by 
he  turned  to  his  friend  and  said,  "I  give  thee  my 
pledge,  Myles  Falworth,  that  never  in  all  my  life 
did  I  hear  of  any  one  that  had  such  marvellous 
strange  happenings  befall  him  as  thou." 

Whenever  the  opportunity  occurred  for  sending 
a  letter  to  Crosbey-Holt,  Myles  wrote  one  to  his 
mother;  and  one  can  guess  how  they  were  trea- 
sured by  the  good  lady,  and  read  over  and  over 
again  to  the  blind  old  Lord  as  he  sat  staring  into 
darkness  with  his  sightless  eyes. 

About  the  time  of  this  escapade  he  wrote  a  let- 
ter telling  of  those  doings,  wherein,  after  speaking 
of  his  misadventure  of  falling  from  the  wall,  and 
of  his  acquaintance  with  the  young  ladies,  he  went 
on  to  speak  of  the  matter  in  which  he  repeated  his 
visits.  The  letter  was  worded  in  the  English  of  that 
day — the  quaint  and  crabbed  language  in  which 
Chaucer  wrote.  Perhaps  few  boys  could  read  it 
nowadays,  so.  modernizing  it  somewhat,  it  ran 
thus: 

"And  now  to  let  ye  weet  that  thing  that  fol- 
lowed that  happening  that  made  me  acquaint  with 
they  two  young  Damoiselles.   I   take  me  to  the 

161 


south  wall  of  that  garden  one  day  four  and  twenty 
great  spikes,  which  Peter  Smith  did  forge  for  me 
and  for  which  I  pay  him  fivepence,  and  that  all  the 
money  that  I  had  left  of  my  half-year's  wage,  and 
wot  not  where  I  may  get  more  at  these  present, 
withouten  I  do  betake  me  to  Sir  James,  who,  as  I 
did  tell  ye,  hath  consented  to  hold  those  moneys 
that  Prior  Edward  gave  me  till  I  need  them. 

"Now  these  same  spikes,  I  say,  I  take  me  them 
down  behind  the  corner  of  the  wall,  and  there 
drave  them  betwixt  the  stones,  my  very  dear  com- 
rade and  true  friend  Gascoyne  holping  me  thereto 
to  do.  And  so  come  Saturday,  I  climb  me  over  the 
wall  and  to  the  roof  of  the  tool-house  below,  seek- 
ing a  fitting  opportunity  when  I  might  so  do  with- 
out being  in  too  great  jeopardy. 

"Yea;  and  who  should  be  there  but  they  two 
ladies,  biding  my  coming,  who,  seeing  me,  made 
as  though  they  had  expected  me  not,  and  gave  me 
greatest  rebuke  for  adventuring  so  moughtily.  Yet, 
methinks,  were  they  right  well  pleasured  that  I 
should  so  aventure,  which  indeed  I  might  not  oth- 
erwise do,  seeing  as  I  have  telled  to  thee,  that  one 
of  them  is  mine  own  true  lady  for  to  serven,  and  so 
was  the  only  way  that  I  might  come  to  speech 
with  her," 

Such  was  Myles's  own  quaint  way  of  telling 

162 


how  he  accomplished  his  aim  of  visiting  the  for- 
bidden garden,  and  no  doubt  the  smack  of  adven- 
ture and  the  savor  of  danger  in  the  undertaking 
recommended  him  not  a  little  to  the  favor  of  the 
young  ladies. 

After  this  first  acquaintance  perhaps  a  month 
passed,  during  which  Myles  had  climbed  the  wall 
some  half  a  dozen  times  (for  the  Lady  Anne 
would  not  permit  of  too  frequent  visits),  and  dur- 
ing which  the  first  acquaintance  of  the  three 
ripened  rapidly  to  an  honest,  pleasant  friendship. 
More  than  once  Myles,  when  in  Lord  George's 
train,  caught  a  covert  smile  or  half  nod  from  one 
or  both  of  the  girls,  not  a  little  delightful  in  its 
very  secret  friendliness. 


163 


CHAPTER   19 


H 


rs  WAS  said,  perhaps  a  month  passed;  then 
Myles's  visits  came  to  an  abrupt  termination,  and 
with  it  ended,  in  a  certain  sense,  a  chapter  of  his 
life. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  he  climbed  the  garden 
wall,  and  skirting  behind  a  long  row  of  rosebushes 
that  screened  him  from  the  Countess's  terrace, 
came  to  a  little  summer-house  where  the  two 
young  ladies  had  appointed  to  meet  him  that 
day. 

A  pleasant  half-hour  or  so  was  passed,  and  then 
it  was  time  for  Myles  to  go.  He  lingered  for  a 
while  before  he  took  his  final  leave,  leaning 
against  the  door-post,  and  laughingly  telling  how 
he  and  some  of  his  brother  squires  had  made  a 
figure  of  straw  dressed  in  men's  clothes,  and  had 


164 


played  a  trick  with  it  one  night  upon  a  watchman 
against  whom  they  bore  a  grudge. 

The  young  ladies  were  listening  with  laughing 
faces,  when  suddenly,  as  Myles  looked,  he  saw  the 
smile  vanish  from  Lady  Alice's  eyes  and  a  wide 
terror  take  its  place.  She  gave  a  half-articulate  cry, 
and  rose  abruptly  from  the  bench  upon  which  she 
was  sitting. 

Myles  turned  sharply,  and  then  his  very  heart 
seemed  to  stand  still  within  him;  for  there,  stand- 
ing in  the  broad  sunlight  without,  and  glaring  in 
upon  the  party  with  baleful  eyes,  was  the  Earl  of 
Mackworth  himself. 

How  long  was  the  breathless  silence  that  fol- 
lowed, Myles  could  never  tell.  He  knew  that  the 
Lady  Anne  had  also  risen,  and  that  she  and  her 
cousin  were  standing  as  still  as  statues.  Presently 
the  Earl  pointed  to  the  house  with  his  staff,  and 
Myles  noted  stupidly  how  it  trembled  in  his  hand. 

"Ye  wenches,"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  hard,  harsh 
voice — "ye  wenches,  what  meaneth  this?  Would 
ye  deceive  me  so,  and  hold  parlance  thus  secretly 
with  this  fellow?  I  will  settle  with  him  anon. 
Meantime  get  ye  straightway  to  the  house  and  to 
your  rooms,  and  there  abide  until  I  give  ye  leave 
to  come  forth  again.  Go,  I  say!" 

"Father,"  said  Lady  Anne,  in  a  breathless  voice 

165 


— she  was  as  white  as  death,  and  moistened  her 
lips  with  her  tongue  before  she  spoke — "father, 
thou  wilt  not  do  harm  to  this  young  man.  Spare 
him,  I  do  beseech  thee,  for  truly  it  was  I  who  bade 
him  come  hither.  I  know  that  he  would  not  have 
come  but  at  our  bidding." 

The  Earl  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  gravel.  "Did 
ye  not  hear  me?"  said  he,  still  pointing  towards  the 
house  with  his  trembling  staff.  "I  bade  ye  go  to 
your  rooms.  I  will  settle  with  this  fellow,  I  say,  as 
I  deem  fitting." 

"Father,"  began  Lady  Anne  again;  but  the  Earl 
made  such  a  savage  gesture  that  poor  Lady  Alice 
uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  Lady  Anne  stopped 
abruptly,  trembling.  Then  she  turned  and  passed 
out  the  farther  door  of  the  summerhouse,  poor  lit- 
tle Lady  Alice  following,  holding  her  tight  by  the 
skirts,  and  trembling  and  shuddering  as  though 
with  a  fit  of  the  ague. 

The  Earl  stood  looking  grimly  after  them  from 
under  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  until  they  passed 
away  behind  the  yew-trees,  appeared  again  upon 
the  terrace  behind,  entered  the  open  doors  of  the 
women's  house,  and  were  gone.  Myles  heard 
their  footsteps  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  but  he 
never  raised  his  eyes.  Upon  the  ground  at  his  feet 
were  four  pebbles,  and  he  noticed  how  they  al- 

166 


most  made  a  square,  and  would  do  so  if  he  pushed 
one  of  them  with  his  toe,  and  then  it  seemed 
strange  to  him  that  he  should  think  of  such  a  little 
foolish  thing  at  that  dreadful  time. 

He  knew  that  the  Earl  was  looking  gloomily  at 
him,  and  that  his  face  must  be  very  pale.  Suddenly 
Lord  Mackworth  spoke.  "What  hast  thou  to  say?" 
said  he,  harshly. 

Then  Myles  raised  his  eyes,  and  the  Earl 
smiled  grimly  as  he  looked  his  victim  over.  "I  have 
naught  to  say,"  said  the  lad,  huskily. 

"Didst  thou  not  hear  what  my  daughter  spake 
but  now?"  said  the  Earl.  "She  said  that  thou  came 
not  of  thy  own  free-will;  what  sayst  thou  to  that, 
sirrah — is  it  true?" 

Myles  hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two;  his  throat 
was  tight  and  dry.  "Nay,"  said  he  at  last,  "she 
belieth  herself.  It  was  I  who  first  came  into  the 
garden.  I  fell  by  chance  from  the  tree  yonder — I 
was  seeking  a  ball — then  I  asked  those  two  if  I 
might  not  come  hither  again,  and  so  have  done 
some  several  times  in  all.  But  as  for  her — nay;  it 
was  not  at  her  bidding  that  I  came,  but  through 
mine  own  asking." 

The  Earl  gave  a  little  grunt  in  his  throat.  "And 
how  often  hast  thou  been  here?"  said  he,  pres- 
ently. 

167 


Myles  thought  a  moment  or  two.  "This  maketh 
the  seventh  time,"  said  he. 

Another  pause  of  silence  followed,  and  Myles 
began  to  pluck  up  some  heart  that  maybe  all 
would  yet  be  well.  The  Earl's  next  speech  dashed 
that  hope  into  a  thousand  fragments.  "Well  thou 
knowest,"  said  he,  "that  it  is  forbid  for  any  to  come 
here.  Well  thou  knowest  that  twice  have  men  been 
punished  for  this  thing  that  thou  hast  done,  and 
yet  thou  camest  in  spite  of  all.  Now  dost  thou 
know  what  thou  wilt  suffer?" 

Myles  picked  with  nervous  fingers  at  a  crack  in 
the  oaken  post  against  which  he  leaned.  "Mayhap 
thou  wilt  kill  me,"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  dull,  chok- 
ing voice. 

Again  the  Earl  smiled  a  grim  smile.  "Nay,"  said 
he,  "I  would  not  slay  thee,  for  thou  hast  gentle 
blood.  But  what  sayest  thou  should  I  shear  thine 
ears  from  thine  head,  or  perchance  have  thee 
scourged  in  the  great  court?" 

The  sting  of  the  words  sent  the  blood  flying 
back  to  Myles's  face  again,  and  he  looked  quickly 
up.  "Nay,"  said  he,  with  a  boldness  that  surprised 
himself;  "thou  shalt  do  no  such  unlordly  thing 
upon  me  as  that.  I  be  thy  peer,  sir,  in  blood;  and 
though  thou  mayst  kill  me,  thou  hast  no  right  to 
shame  me." 

Lord  Mackworth  bowed  with  a  mocking  cour- 

168 


tesy.  "Marry!"  said  he.  "Methought  it  was  one  of 
mine  own  saucy  popinjay  squires  that  I  caught 
sneaking  here  and  talking  to  those  two  foolish 
young  lasses,  and  lo!  it  is  a  young  Lord — or 
mayhap  thou  art  a  young  Prince — and  command- 
eth  me  that  I  shall  not  do  this  and  I  shall  not  do 
that.  I  crave  your  Lordship's  honorable  pardon,  if 
I  have  said  aught  that  may  have  galled  you," 

The  fear  Myles  had  felt  was  now  beginning  to 
dissolve  in  rising  wrath.  "Nay,"  said  he,  stoutly,  "I 
be  no  Lord  and  I  be  no  Prince,  but  I  be  as  good  as 
thou.  For  am  I  not  the  son  of  thy  onetime  very 
true  comrade  and  thy  kinsman — to  wit,  the  Lord 
Falworth,  whom,  as  thou  knowest,  is  poor  and 
broken,  and  blind,  and  helpless,  and  outlawed, 
and  banned?  Yet,"  cried  he,  grinding  his  teeth,  as 
the  thought  of  it  all  rushed  in  upon  him,  "I  would 
rather  be  in  his  place  than  in  yours;  for  though  he 
be  ruined,  you — " 

He  had  just  sense  enough  to  stop  there. 

The  Earl,  gripping  his  staff  behind  his  back,  and 
with  his  head  a  little  bent,  was  looking  keenly  at 
the  lad  from  under  his  shaggy  gray  brows.  "Well," 
said  he,  as  Myles  stopped,  "thou  hast  gone  too  far 
now  to  draw  back.  Say  thy  say  to  the  end.  Why 
wouldst  thou  rather  be  in  thy  father's  stead  than 
in  mine?" 

Myles  did  not  answer. 

169 


"Thou  shalt  finish  thy  speech,  or  else  show  thy- 
self a  coward.  Though  thy  father  is  ruined,  thou 
didst  say  I  am — what?" 

Myles  keyed  himself  up  to  the  effort,  and  then 
blurted  out,  "Thou  art  attainted  with  shame." 

A  long  breathless  silence  followed. 

"Myles  Falworth,"  said  the  Earl  at  last  (and 
even  in  the  whirling  of  his  wits  Myles  wondered 
that  he  had  the  name  so  pat) — "Myles  Falworth, 
of  all  the  bold,  mad,  hare-brained  fools,  thou  art 
the  most  foolish.  How  dost  thou  dare  say  such 
words  to  me?  Dost  thou  not  know  that  thou 
makest  thy  coming  punishment  ten  times  more 
bitter  by  such  a  speech?" 

"Aye!"  cried  Myles,  desperately;  "but  what  else 
could  I  do?  An  I  did  not  say  the  words,  thou 
callest  me  coward,  and  coward  I  am  not." 

"By  'r  Lady!"  said  the  Earl,  "I  do  believe  thee. 
Thou  art  a  bold,  impudent  varlet  as  ever  lived — to 
beard  me  so,  forsooth!  Hark'ee;  thou  sayst  I  think 
naught  of  mine  old  comrade.  I  will  show  thee  that 
thou  dost  belie  me.  I  will  suffer  what  thou  hast 
said  to  me  for  his  sake,  and  for  his  sake  will  forgive 
thee  thy  coming  hither — which  I  would  not  do  in 
another  case  to  any  other  man.  Now  get  thee  gone 
straightway,  and  come  hither  no  more.  Yonder  is 
the  postern-gate;  mayhap  thou  knowest  the  way. 
But  stay!  How  camest  thou  hither?" 

170 


Myles  found  himself  standing  beside  the  bed. 


Myles  told  him  of  the  spikes  he  had  driven  in 
the  wall,  and  the  Earl  listened,  stroking  his  beard. 
When  the  lad  had  ended,  he  fixed  a  sharp  look 
upon  him.  "But  thou  drove  not  those  spikes 
alone,"  said  he;  "who  helped  thee  do  it?" 

"That  I  may  not  tell,"  said  Myles,  firmly. 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  Earl.  "I  will  not  ask  thee  to 
tell  his  name.  Now  get  thee  gone!  And  as  for  those 
spikes,  thou  mayst  e'en  knock  them  out  of  the 
wall,  sin  thou  drave  them  in.  Play  no  more  pranks 
an  thou  wouldst  keep  thy  skin  whole.  And  now  go, 
I  say!" 

Myles  needed  no  further  bidding,  but  turned 
and  left  the  Earl  without  another  word.  As  he 
went  out  the  postern-gate  he  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  and  saw  the  tall  figure,  in  its  long  fur- 
trimmed  gown,  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
path,  looking  after  him  from  under  the  shaggy 
eyebrows. 

As  he  ran  across  the  quadrangle,  his  heart  still 
fluttering  in  his  breast,  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"The  old  grizzle-beard;  an  I  had  not  faced  him  a 
bold  front,  mayhap  he  would  have  put  such  shame 
upon  me  as  he  said.  I  wonder  why  he  stood  so 
staring  after  me  as  I  left  the  garden." 

Then  for  the  time  the  matter  slipped  from  his 
mind,  saving  only  that  part  that  smacked  of  ad- 
venture. 


171 


CHAPTER  20 


S. 


'o  FOR  a  little  while  Myles  was  disposed  to 
congratulate  himself  upon  having  come  off  so  well 
from  his  adventure  with  the  Earl.  But  after  a  day 
or  two  had  passed,  and  he  had  time  for  second 
thought,  he  began  to  misdoubt  whether,  after  all, 
he  might  not  have  carried  it  with  a  better  air  if  he 
had  shown  more  chivalrous  boldness  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  true  lady;  whether  it  would  not  have 
redounded  more  to  his  credit  if  he  had  in  some 
way  asserted  his  rights  as  the  young  dame's  knight- 
errant  and  defender.  Was  it  not  ignominious  to 
resign  his  rights  and  privileges  so  easily  and 
tamely  at  a  signal  from  the  Earl? 

"For,  in  sooth,"  said  he  to  Gascoyne,  as  the  two 
talked  the  matter  over,  "she  hath,  in  a  certain  way, 
accepted  me  for  her  knight,  and  yet  I  stood  me 

172 


there  without  saying  so  much  as  one  single  word 
in  her  behalf." 

"Nay,"  said  Gascoyne,  "I  would  not  trouble  me 
on  that  score.  Methinks  that  thou  didst  come  off 
wondrous  well  out  of  the  business.  I  would  not 
have  thought  it  possible  that  my  Lord  could  ha' 
been  so  patient  with  thee  as  he  showed  himself. 
Methinks,  forsooth,  he  must  hold  thee  privily  in 
right  high  esteem." 

"Truly,"  said  Myles,  after  a  little  pause  of  medi- 
tative silence,  "I  know  not  of  any  esteem,  yet  I  do 
think  he  was  passing  patient  with  me  in  this  mat- 
ter. But  ne'theless,  Francis,  that  changeth  not  my 
stand  in  the  case.  Yea,  I  did  shamefully,  so  to  re- 
sign my  lady  without  speaking  one  word;  nor  will 
I  so  resign  her  even  yet.  I  have  bethought  me 
much  of  this  matter  of  late,  Francis,  and  now  I 
come  to  thee  to  help  me  from  my  evil  case.  I 
would  have  thee  act  the  part  of  a  true  friend  to 
me — like  that  one  I  have  told  thee  of  in  the  story 
of  the  Emperor  Justinian.  I  would  have  thee,  when 
next  thou  servest  in  the  house,  to  so  contrive  that 
my  Lady  Alice  shall  get  a  letter  which  I  shall 
presently  write,  and  wherein  I  may  set  all  that  is 
crooked  straight  again." 

"Heaven  forbid,"  said  Gascoyne,  hastily,  "that  I 
should  be  such  a  fool  as  to  burn  my  fingers  in 

173 


drawing  thy  nuts  from  the  fire!  Deliver  thy  letter 
thyself,  good  fellow!" 

So  spoke  Gascoyne,  yet  after  all  he  ended,  as  he 
usually  did,  by  yielding  to  Myles's  superior  will 
and  persistence.  So  the  letter  was  written  and  one 
day  the  good-natured  Gascoyne  carried  it  with 
him  to  the  house,  and  the  opportunity  offering, 
gave  it  to  one  of  the  young  ladies  attendant  upon 
the  Countess's  family — a  lass  with  whom  he  had 
friendly  intimacy — to  be  delivered  to  Lady  Alice. 

But  if  Myles  congratulated  himself  upon  the 
success  of  this  new  adventure,  it  was  not  for  long. 
That  night,  as  the  crowd  of  pages  and  squires 
were  making  themselves  ready  for  bed,  the  call 
came  through  the  uproar  for  "Myles  Falworth! 
Myles  Falworth!" 

"Here  I  be,"  cried  Myles,  standing  up  on  his  cot. 
"Who  calleth  me?" 

It  was  the  groom  of  the  Earl's  bedchamber,  and 
seeing  Myles  standing  thus  raised  above  the  oth- 
ers, he  came  walking  down  the  length  of  the  room 
towards  him,  the  wonted  hubbub  gradually  silenc- 
ing as  he  advanced  and  the  youngsters  turning, 
staring,  and  wondering. 

"My  Lord  would  speak  with  thee,  Myles  Fal- 
worth," said  the  groom,  when  he  had  come  close 
enough  to  where  Myles  stood.   "Busk  thee  and 

174 


make  ready;  he  is  at  livery  even  now." 

The  groom's  words  fell  upon  Myles  like  a  blow. 
He  stood  for  a  while  staring  wide-eyed.  "My  Lord 
speak  with  me,  sayst  thou!"  he  ejaculated  at  last. 

"Aye,"  said  the  other,  impatiently;  "get  thee 
ready  quickly.  I  must  return  anon." 

Myles's  head  was  in  a  whirl  as  he  hastily 
changed  his  clothes  for  a  better  suit,  Gascoyne 
helping  him.  What  could  the  Earl  want  with  him 
at  this  hour?  He  knew  in  his  heart  what  it  was;  the 
interview  could  concern  nothing  but  the  letter 
that  he  had  sent  to  Lady  Alice  that  day.  As  he 
followed  the  groom  through  the  now  dark  and 
silent  courts,  and  across  the  corner  of  the  great 
quadrangle,  and  so  to  the  Earl's  house,  he  tried  to 
brace  his  failing  courage  to  meet  the  coming  inter- 
view. Nevertheless,  his  heart  beat  tumultuously  as 
he  followed  the  other  down  the  long  corridor,  lit 
only  by  a  flaring  link  set  in  a  wrought-iron 
bracket.  Then  his  conductor  lifted  the  arras  at  the 
door  of  the  bedchamber,  whence  came  the  mur- 
muring sound  of  many  voices,  and  holding  it 
aside,  beckoned  him  to  enter,  and  Myles  passed 
within.  At  the  first,  he  was  conscious  of  nothing 
but  a  crowd  of  people,  and  of  the  brightness  of 
many  lighted  candles;  then  he  saw  that  he  stood  in 
a  great  airy  room  spread  with  a  woven  mat  of 

175 


rushes.  On  three  sides  the  walls  were  hung  with 
tapestry  representing  hunting  and  battle  scenes,  at 
the  farther  end,  where  the  bed  stood,  the  stone 
wall  of  the  fourth  side  was  covered  with  cloth  of 
blue,  embroidered  with  silver  goshawks.  Even 
now,  in  the  ripe  springtime  of  May,  the  room  was 
still  chilly,  and  a  great  fire  roared  and  crackled  in 
the  huge  gaping  mouth  of  the  stone  fireplace.  Not 
far  from  the  blaze  were  clustered  the  greater  part 
of  those  present,  buzzing  in  talk,  now  and  then 
swelled  by  murmuring  laughter.  Some  of  those 
who  knew  Myles  nodded  to  him,  and  two  or  three 
spoke  to  him  as  he  stood  waiting,  whilst  the  groom 
went  forward  to  speak  to  the  Earl;  though  what 
they  said  and  what  he  answered,  Myles,  in  his  be- 
wilderment and  trepidation,  hardly  knew. 

As  was  said  before,  the  livery  was  the  last  meal 
of  the  day,  and  was  taken  in  bed.  It  was  a  simple 
repast — a  manchette,  or  small  loaf  of  bread  of 
pure  white  flour,  a  loaf  of  household  bread,  some- 
times a  lump  of  cheese,  and  either  a  great  flagon  of 
ale  or  of  sweet  wine,  warm  and  spiced.  The  Earl 
was  sitting  upright  in  bed,  dressed  in  a  furred 
dressing-gown,  and  propped  up  by  two  cylindrical 
bolsters  of  crimson  satin.  Upon  the  coverlet,  and 
spread  over  his  knees,  was  a  large  wide  napkin  of 
linen  fringed  with  silver  thread,  and  on  it  rested  a 

176 


silver  tray  containing  the  bread  and  some  cheese. 
Two  pages  and  three  gentlemen  were  waiting 
upon  him,  and  Mad  Noll,  the  Jester,  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  bed,  now  and  then  jingling  his  bawble 
and  passing  some  quaint  jest  upon  the  chance  of 
making  his  master  smile.  Upon  a  table  near  by 
were  some  dozen  or  so  waxen  tapers  struck  upon  as 
many  spiked  candlesticks  of  silver-gilt,  and  illumi- 
nating that  end  of  the  room  with  their  bright 
twinkling  flames.  One  of  the  gentlemen  was  in  the 
act  of  serving  the  Earl  with  a  goblet  of  wine, 
poured  from  a  silver  ewer  by  one  of  the  squires,  as 
the  groom  of  the  chamber  came  forward  and 
spoke.  The  Earl,  taking  the  goblet,  turned  his 
head,  and  as  Myles  looked,  their  eyes  met.  Then 
the  Earl  turned  away  again  and  raised  the  cup  to 
his  lips,  while  Myles  felt  his  heart  beat  more  ra- 
pidly than  ever. 

But  at  last  the  meal  was  ended,  and  the  Earl 
washed  his  hands  and  his  mouth  and  his  beard 
from  a  silver  basin  of  scented  water  held  by  an- 
other one  of  the  squires.  Then,  leaning  back 
against  the  pillows,  he  beckoned  to  Myles. 

In  answer  Myles  walked  forward  the  length  of 
the  room,  conscious  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him.  The  Earl  said  something,  and  those  who 
stood  near  drew  back  as  he  came  forward.  Then 


177 


Myles  found  himself  standing  beside  the  bed, 
looking  down  upon  the  quilted  counterpane,  feel- 
ing that  the  other  was  gazing  fixedly  at  him, 

"I  sent  for  thee,"  said  the  Earl  at  last,  still  look- 
ing steadily  at  him,  "because  this  afternoon  came  a 
letter  to  my  hand  which  thou  hadst  written  to  my 
niece,  the  Lady  Alice.  I  have  it  here,"  said  he, 
thrusting  his  hand  under  the  bolster,  "and  have 
just  now  finished  reading  it."  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  whilst  he  opened  the  parchment  and 
scanned  it  again,  "I  find  no  matter  of  harm  in  it, 
but  hereafter  write  no  more  such."  He  spoke  en- 
tirely without  anger,  and  Myles  looked  up  in  won- 
der. "Here,  take  it,"  said  the  Earl,  folding  the  let- 
ter and  tossing  it  to  Myles,  who  instinctively 
caught  it,  "and  henceforth  trouble  thou  my  niece 
no  more  either  by  letter  or  any  other  way.  I 
thought  haply  thou  wouldst  be  at  some  such  saucy 
trick,  and  I  made  Alice  promise  to  let  me  know 
when  it  happed.  Now.  I  say,  let  this  be  an  end  of 
the  matter.  Dost  thou  not  know  thou  mayst  injure 
her  by  such  witless  folly  as  that  of  meeting  her 
privily,  and  privily  writing  to  her?" 

"I  meant  no  harm,"  said  Myles. 

"I  believe  thee,"  said  the  Earl.  "That  will  do 
now;  thou  mayst  go." 

Myles  hesitated. 


178 


"What  woiildst  thou  say?"  said  Lord  Mack- 
worth. 

"Only  this,"  said  Myles,  "an  I  have  thy  leave  so 
to  do,  that  the  Lady  Alice  hath  chosen  me  to  be 
her  knight,  and  so,  whether  I  may  see  her  or  speak 
with  her  or  no,  the  laws  of  chivalry  give  me,  who 
am  gentle  born,  the  right  to  serve  her  as  a  true 
knight  may." 

"As  a  true  fool  may."  said  the  Earl,  dryly.  "Why, 
how  now,  thou  art  not  a  knight  yet,  nor  anything 
but  a  raw  lump  of  a  boy.  What  rights  do  the  laws 
of  chivalry  give  thee,  sirrah?  Thou  art  a  fool!" 

Had  the  Earl  been  ever  so  angry,  his  words 
would  have  been  less  bitter  to  Myles  than  his  cool, 
unmoved  patience;  it  mortified  his  pride  and 
galled  it  to  the  quick. 

"I  know  that  thou  dost  hold  me  in  contempt," 
he  mumbled. 

"Out  upon  thee!"  said  the  Earl,  testily.  "Thou 
dost  tease  me  beyond  patience.  I  hold  thee  in  con- 
tempt, forsooth!  Why,  look  thee,  hadst  thou  been 
other  than  thou  art,  I  would  have  had  thee 
whipped  out  of  my  house  long  since.  Thinkest 
thou  I  would  have  borne  so  patiently  with  another 
one  of  ye  squires  had  such  an  one  held  secret 
meeting  with  my  daughter  and  niece,  and  tam- 
pered,  as   thou   hast  done,   with   my   household, 

179 


sending  through  one  of  my  people  that  letter?  Go 
to;  thou  art  a  fool,  Myles  Falworth!" 

Myles  stood  staring  at  the  Earl  without  making 
an  effort  to  speak.  The  words  that  he  had  heard 
suddenly  flashed,  as  it  were,  a  new  light  into  his 
mind.  In  that  flash  he  fully  recognized,  and  for  the 
first  time,  the  strange  and  wonderful  forbearance 
the  great  Earl  had  shown  to  him,  a  poor  obscure 
boy.  What  did  it  mean?  Was  Lord  Mackworth  his 
secret  friend,  after  all,  as  Gascoyne  had  more  than 
once  asserted?  So  Myles  stood  silent,  thinking 
many  things. 

Meantime  the  other  lay  back  upon  the  cylindri- 
cal bolsters,  looking  thoughtfully  at  him.  "How 
old  art  thou?"  said  he  at  last. 

"Seventeen  last  April,"  answered  Myles. 

"Then  thou  art  old  enough  to  have  some  of  the 
thoughts  of  a  man,  and  to  lay  aside  those  of  a  boy. 
Haply  thou  hast  had  foolish  things  in  thy  head 
this  short  time  past;  it  is  time  that  thou  put  them 
away.  Harkee,  sirrah!  the  Lady  Alice  is  a  great 
heiress  in  her  own  right,  and  mayst  command  the 
best  alliance  in  England — an  Earl — a  Duke.  She 
groweth  apace  to  a  woman,  and  then  her  kind 
lieth  in  Courts  and  great  houses.  As  for  thee,  thou 
art  but  a  poor  lad,  penniless  and  without  friends  to 
aid  thee  to  open  advancement.  Thy  father  is  at- 
tainted, and  one  whisper  of  where  he  lieth  hid 

180 


would  bring  him  thence  to  the  Tower,  and  haply 
to  the  block.  Besides  that,  he  hath  an  enemy,  as  Sir 
James  Lee  hath  already  told  thee — an  enemy  per- 
haps more  great  and  powerful  than  myself.  That 
enemy  watcheth  for  thy  father  and  for  thee; 
shouldst  thou  dare  raise  thy  head  or  thy  fortune 
ever  so  little,  he  would  haply  crop  them  both,  and 
that  parlously  quick.  Myles  Falworth,  how  dost 
thou  dare  to  lift  thine  eyes  to  the  Lady  Alice  de 
Mowbray?" 

Poor  Myles  stood  silent  and  motionless.  "Sir," 
said  he  at  last,  in  a  dry  choking  voice,  "thou  art 
right,  and  I  have  been  a  fool.  Sir,  I  will  never  raise 
mine  eyes  to  look  upon  the  Lady  Alice  more." 

"I  say  not  that  either,  boy,"  said  the  Earl;  "but 
ere  thou  dost  so  dare,  thou  must  first  place  thyself 
and  thy  family  whence  ye  fell.  Till  then,  as  thou 
art  an  honest  man,  trouble  her  not.  Now  get  thee 
gone." 

As  Myles  crossed  the  dark  and  silent  courtyards, 
and  looked  up  at  the  clear,  still  twinkle  of  the 
stars,  he  felt  a  kind  of  dull  wonder  that  they  and 
the  night  and  the  world  should  seem  so  much  the 
same,  and  he  be  so  different. 

The  first  stroke  had  been  given  that  was  to 
break  in  pieces  his  boyhood  life — the  second  was 
soon  to  follow. 


181 


CHAPTER  21 


xr, 


'HERE  ARE  now  and  then  times  in  the  life  of 
every  one  when  new  and  strange  things  occur  with 
such  rapidity  that  one  has  hardly  time  to  catch 
one's  breath  between  the  happenings.  It  is  as 
though  the  old  were  crumbling  away — breaking  in 
pieces — to  give  place  to  the  new  that  is  soon  to 
take  its  place. 

So  it  was  with  Myles  Falworth  about  this  time. 
The  very  next  day  after  this  interview  in  the  bed- 
chamber, word  came  to  him  that  Sir  James  Lee 
wished  to  speak  with  him  in  the  office.  He  found 
the  lean,  grizzled  old  knight  alone,  sitting  at  the 
heavy  oaken  table  with  a  tankard  of  spiced  ale 
at  his  elbow,  and  a  dish  of  wafers  and  some  frag- 
ments of  cheese  on  a  pewter  platter  before  him. 
He  pointed  to  his  clerk's  seat — a  joint  stool  some- 

182 


what  like  a  camp-chair,  but  made  of  heavy  oaken 
braces  and  with  a  seat  of  hog-skin — and  bade 
Myles  be  seated. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Myles  had  ever  heard 
of  such  courtesy  being  extended  to  one  of  the 
company  of  squires,  and,  much  wondering,  he 
obeyed  the  invitation,  or  rather  command,  and 
took  the  seat. 

The  old  knight  sat  regarding  him  for  a  while  in 
silence,  his  one  eye,  as  bright  and  as  steady  as  that 
of  a  hawk,  looking  keenly  from  under  the  pent- 
house of  its  bushy  brows,  the  while  he  slowly 
twirled  and  twisted  his  bristling  wiry  mustaches, 
as  was  his  wont  when  in  meditation.  At  last  he 
broke  the  silence.  "How  old  art  thou?"  said  he, 
abruptly. 

"I  be  turned  seventeen  last  April,"  Myles  an- 
swered, as  he  had  the  evening  before  to  Lord 
Mackworth. 

"Humph!"  said  Sir  James;  "thou  be'st  big  of 
bone  and  frame  for  thine  age.  I  would  that  thy 
heart  were  more  that  of  a  man  likewise,  and  less 
that  of  a  giddy,  hare-brained  boy,  thinking  con- 
tinually of  naught  but  mischief." 

Again  he  fell  silent,  and  Myles  sat  quite  still, 
wondering  if  it  was  on  account  of  any  special  one 
of  his   latest  escapades   that   he   had   been   sum- 

183 


moned  to  the  office — the  breaking  of  the  window 
in  the  Long  Hall  by  the  stone  he  had  flung  at  the 
rook,  or  the  climbing  of  the  South  Tower  for  the 
jackdaw's  nest, 

"Thou  hast  a  friend,"  said  Sir  James,  suddenly 
breaking  into  his  speculations,  "of  such  a  kind  that 
few  in  this  world  possess.  Almost  ever  since  thou 
hast  been  here  he  hath  been  watching  over  thee. 
Canst  thou  guess  of  whom  I  speak?" 

"Haply  it  is  Lord  George  Beaumont,"  said 
Myles;  "he  hath  always  been  passing  kind  to 
me." 

"Nay,"  said  Sir  James,  "it  is  not  of  him  that  I 
speak,  though  methinks  he  liketh  thee  well  enow. 
Canst  thou  keep  a  secret,  boy?"  he  asked,  sud- 
denly. 

"Yea,"  answered  Myles. 

"And  wilt  thou  do  so  in  this  case  if  I  tell  thee 
who  it  is  that  is  thy  best  friend  here?" 

"Yea." 

"Then  it  is  my  Lord  who  is  that  friend — the 
Earl  himself;  but  see  that  thou  breathe  not  a  word 
of  it." 

Myles  sat  staring  at  the  old  knight  in  utter  and 
profound  amazement,  and  presently  Sir  James 
continued:  "Yea,  almost  ever  since  thou  hast  come 
here  my  Lord  hath  kept  oversight  upon  all  thy 

184 


doings,  upon  all  thy  mad  pranks  and  thy  quarrels 
and  thy  fights,  thy  goings  out  and  comings  in. 
What  thinkest  thou  of  that,  Myles  Falworth?" 

Again  the  old  knight  stopped  and  regarded  the 
lad,  who  sat  silent,  finding  no  words  to  answer.  He 
seemed  to  find  a  grim  pleasure  in  the  youngster's 
bewilderment  and  wonder.  Then  a  sudden 
thought  came  to  Myles. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "did  my  Lord  know  that  I  went  to 
the  privy  garden  as  I  did?" 

"Nay,"  said  Sir  James;  "of  that  he  knew  naught 
at  first  until  thy  father  bade  thy  mother  write  and 
tell  him." 

"My  father!"  ejaculated  Myles. 

"Aye,"  said  Sir  James,  twisting  his  mustaches 
more  vigorously  than  ever.  "So  soon  as  thy  father 
heard  of  that  prank,  he  ^vrote  straightway  to  my 
Lord  that  he  should  put  a  stop  to  what  might  in 
time  have  bred  mischief." 

"Sir,"  said  Myles.  in  an  almost  breathless  voice, 
"I  know  not  how  to  believe  all  these  things,  or 
whether  I  be  awake  or  a-dreaming." 

"Thou  be'st  surely  enough  awake,"  answered 
the  old  man;  "but  there  are  other  matters  yet  to  be 
told.  My  Lord  thinketh,  as  others  of  us  do — Lord 
George  and  myself — that  it  is  now  time  for  thee  to 
put  away  thy  boyish  follies,  and  learn  those  things 

185 


appertaining  to  manhood.  Thou  hast  been  here  a 
year  now,  and  hast  had  freedom  to  do  as  thou 
might  list;  but,  boy" — and  the  old  warrior  spoke 
seriously,  almost  solemnly — "upon  thee  doth  rest 
matters  of  such  great  import  that  did  I  tell  them  to 
thee  thou  couldst  not  grasp  them.  My  Lord  deems 
that  thou  hast,  mayhap,  promise  beyond  the  com- 
mon of  men;  ne'theless  it  remaineth  yet  to  be  seen 
an  he  be  right;  it  is  yet  to  test  whether  that  prom- 
ise may  be  fulfilled.  Next  Monday  I  and  Sir 
Everard  Willoughby  take  thee  in  hand  to  begin 
training  thee  in  the  knowledge  and  the  use  of  the 
jousting  lance,  of  arms,  and  of  horsemanship. 
Thou  art  to  go  to  Ralph  Smith,  and  have  him  fit  a 
suit  of  plain  armor  to  thee  which  he  hath  been 
charged  to  make  for  thee  against  this  time.  So  get 
thee  gone,  think  well  over  all  these  matters,  and 
prepare  thyself  by  next  Monday.  But  stay,  sirrah," 
he  added,  as  Myles,  dazed  and  bewildered,  turned 
to  obey;  "breathe  to  no  living  soul  what  I  ha'  told 
thee — that  my  Lord  is  thy  friend — neither  speak 
of  anything  concerning  him.  Such  is  his  own 
heavy  command  laid  upon  thee." 

Then  Myles  turned  again  without  a  word  to 
leave  the  room.  But  as  he  reached  the  door  Sir 
James  stopped  him  a  second  time. 

"Stay!"  he  called.  "I  had  nigh  missed  telling  thee 

186 


somewhat  else.  My  Lord  hath  made  thee  a  present 
this  morning  that  thou  wottest  not  of.  It  is" — then 
he  stopped  for  a  few  moments,  perhaps  to  enjoy 
the  full  flavor  of  what  he  had  to  say — "it  is  a  great 
Flemish  horse  of  true  breed  and  right  mettle;  a 
horse  such  as  a  knight  of  the  noblest  strain  might 
be  proud  to  call  his  own.  Myles  Falworth,  thou 
wert  born  upon  a  lucky  day!" 

"Sir,"  cried  Myles,  and  then  stopped  short. 
Then,  "Sir,"  he  cried  again,  "didst  thou  say  it — the 
horse — was  to  be  mine?" 

"Aye,  it  is  to  be  thine." 

"My  very  own?" 

"Thy  very  own." 

How  Myles  Falworth  left  that  place  he  never 
knew.  He  was  like  one  in  some  strange,  some 
wonderful  dream.  He  walked  upon  air,  and  his 
heart  was  so  full  of  joy  and  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment that  it  thrilled  almost  to  agony.  Of  course  his 
first  thought  was  of  Gascoyne.  How  he  ever  found 
him  he  never  could  tell,  but  find  him  he  did. 

"Come,  Francis!"  he  cried,  "I  have  that  to  tell 
thee  so  marvellous  that  had  it  come  upon  me  from 
paradise  it  could  not  be  more  strange." 

Then  he  dragged  him  away  to  their  Eyry — it 
had  been  many  a  long  day  since  they  had  been 
there — and  to  all  his  friend's  speeches,  to  all  his 

187 


wondering  questions,  he  answered  never  a  word 
until  they  had  climbed  the  stairs,  and  so  come  to 
their  old  haunt.  Then  he  spoke. 

"Sit  thee  down,  Francis,"  said  he,  "till  I  tell  thee 
that  which  passeth  wonder."  As  Gascoyne  obeyed, 
he  himself  stood  looking  about  him.  "This  is  the 
last  time  I  shall  ever  come  hither,"  said  he.  And 
thereupon  he  poured  out  his  heart  to  his  listening 
friend  in  the  murmuring  solitude  of  the  airy 
height.  He  did  not  speak  of  the  Earl,  but  of  the 
wonderful  new  life  that  had  thus  suddenly  opened 
before  him,  with  its  golden  future  of  limitless 
hopes,  of  dazzling  possibilities,  of  heroic  ambi- 
tions. He  told  everything,  walking  up  and  down 
the  while — for  he  could  not  remain  quiet — his 
cheeks  glowing  and  his  eyes  sparkling. 

Gascoyne  sat  quite  still,  staring  straight  before 
him.  He  knew  that  his  friend  was  ruffling  eagle 
pinions  for  a  flight  in  which  he  could  never  hope 
to  follow,  and  somehow  his  heart  ached,  for  he 
knew  that  this  must  be  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
the  dear,  delightful  friendship  of  the  year  past. 


188 


CHAPTER  22 


m 


ND  SO  ended  Myles  Fal worth's  boyhood. 
Three  years  followed,  during  which  he  passed 
through  that  state  which  immediately  follows 
boyhood  in  all  men's  lives — a  time  when  they  are 
neither  lads  nor  grown  men,  but  youths  passing 
from  the  one  to  the  other  period  through  what  is 
often  an  uncouth  and  uncomfortable  age. 

He  had  fancied,  when  he  talked  with  Gascoyne 
in  the  Eyry  that  time,  that  he  was  to  become  a 
man  all  at  once;  he  felt  just  then  that  he  had  for- 
ever done  with  boyish  things.  But  that  is  not  the 
way  it  happens  in  men's  lives.  Changes  do  not 
come  so  suddenly  and  swiftly  as  that,  but  by  little 
and  little.  For  three  or  four  days,  maybe,  he  went 
his  new  way  of  life  big  with  the  great  change  that 
had  come  upon  him,  and  then,  now  in  this  and 

189 


now  in  that,  he  drifted  back  very  much  into  his  old 
ways  of  boyish  doings.  As  was  said,  one's  young 
days  do  not  end  all  at  once,  even  when  they  be  so 
suddenly  and  sharply  shaken,  and  Myles  was  not 
different  from  others.  He  had  been  stirred  to  the 
core  by  that  first  wonderful  sight  of  the  great  and 
glorious  life  of  manhood  opening  before  him,  but 
he  had  yet  many  a  sport  to  enjoy,  many  a  game  to 
play,  many  a  boisterous  romp  to  riot  in  the  dormi- 
tory, many  an  expedition  to  make  to  copse  and 
spinney  and  river  on  days  when  he  was  off  duty, 
and  when  permission  had  been  granted. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  great  and  vital  change 
in  his  life;  a  change  which  he  hardly  felt  or  real- 
ized. Even  in  resuming  his  old  life  there  was  no 
longer  the  same  vitality,  the  same  zest,  the  same 
enjoyment  in  all  these  things.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  were  no  longer  a  part  of  himself.  The  savor 
had  gone  from  them,  and  by-and-by  it  was  pleas- 
anter  to  sit  looking  on  at  the  sports  and  the  games 
of  the  younger  lads  than  to  take  active  part  in 
them. 

These  three  years  of  his  life  that  had  thus 
passed  had  been  very  full;  full  mostly  of  work, 
grinding  and  monotonous;  of  training  dull,  dry, 
laborious.  For  Sir  James  Lee  was  a  taskmaster  as 
hard  as  iron  and  seemingly  as  cold  as  a  stone.  For 

190 


two,  perhaps  for  three,  weeks  Myles  entered  into 
his  new  exercises  with  all  the  enthusiasm  that 
novelty  brings;  but  these  exercises  hardly  varied  a 
tittle  from  day  to  day,  and  soon  became  a  duty, 
and  finally  a  hard  and  grinding  task.  He  used,  in 
the  earlier  days  of  his  castle  life,  to  hate  the  dull 
monotony  of  the  tri-weekly  hacking  at  the  pels 
with  a  heavy  broadsword  as  he  hated  nothing  else; 
but  now,  though  he  still  had  that  exercise  to  per- 
form, it  was  almost  a  relief  from  the  heavy  dulness 
of  riding,  riding,  riding  in  the  tilt-yard  with  shield 
and  lance — couch — recover — en  passant. 

But  though  he  had  nowadays  but  little  time  for 
boyish  plays  and  escapades,  his  life  was  not  alto- 
gether without  relaxation.  Now  and  then  he  was 
permitted  to  drive  in  mock  battle  with  other  of  the 
younger  knights  and  bachelors  in  the  paddock 
near  the  outer  walls.  It  was  a  still  more  welcome 
change  in  the  routine  of  his  life  when,  occasion- 
ally, he  would  break  a  light  lance  in  the  tilting- 
court  with  Sir  Everard  Willoughby;  Lord  George, 
perhaps,  and  maybe  one  or  two  others  of  the  Hall 
folk,  looking  on. 

Then  one  gilded  day,  when  Lord  Dudleigh  was 
visiting  at  Devlen,  Myles  ran  a  course  with  a 
heavier  lance  in  the  presence  of  the  Earl,  who 
came  down  to  the  tilt-yard  with  his  guest  to  see 

191 


the  young  novitiate  ride  against  Sir  Everard.  He 
did  his  best,  and  did  it  well.  Lord  Dudleigh 
praised  his  poise  and  carriage,  and  Lord  George, 
who  was  present,  gave  him  an  approving  smile  and 
nod.  But  the  Earl  of  Mackworth  only  sat  stroking 
his  beard  impassively,  as  was  his  custom.  Myles 
would  have  given  much  to  know  his  thoughts. 

In  all  these  years  Sir  James  Lee  almost  never 
gave  any  expression  either  of  approbation  or  dis- 
approval— excepting  when  Myles  exhibited  some 
carelessness  or  oversight.  Then  his  words  were 
sharp  and  harsh  enough.  More  than  once  Myles's 
heart  failed  him,  and  bitter  discouragement  took 
possession  of  him;  then  nothing  but  his  bull-dog 
tenacity  and  stubbornness  brought  him  out  from 
the  despondency  of  the  dark  hours. 

"Sir,"  he  burst  out  one  day,  when  his  heart  was 
heavy  with  some  failure,  "tell  me,  I  beseech  thee, 
do  I  get  me  any  of  skill  at  all?  Is  it  in  me  ever  to 
make  a  worthy  knight,  fit  to  hold  lance  and  sword 
with  other  men,  or  am  I  only  soothly  a  dull  heavy 
block,  worth  naught  of  any  good?" 

"Thou  art  a  fool,  sirrah!"  answered  Sir  James, 
in  his  grimmest  tones.  "Thinkest  thou  to  learn  all 
of  knightly  prowess  in  a  year  and  a  half?  Wait  until 
thou  art  ripe,  and  then  I  will  tell  thee  if  thou  art  fit 
to  couch  a  lance  or  ride  a  course  with  a  right 
knight." 

192 


"Thou  art  an  old  bear!"  muttered  Myles  to  him- 
self, as  the  old  one-eyed  knight  turned  on  his  heel 
and  strode  away.  "Beshrew  me!  an  I  show  thee  not 
that  I  am  as  worthy  to  couch  a  lance  as  thou  one 
of  these  fine  days!" 

However,  during  the  last  of  the  three  years  the 
grinding  routine  of  his  training  had  not  been  quite 
so  severe  as  at  first.  His  exercises  took  him  more 
often  out  into  the  fields,  and  it  was  during  this 
time  of  his  knightly  education  that  he  sometimes 
rode  against  some  of  the  castle  knights  in  friendly 
battle  with  sword  or  lance  or  wooden  mace.  In 
these  encounters  he  always  held  his  own;  and  held 
it  more  than  well,  though,  in  his  boyish  simplicity, 
he  was  altogether  unconscious  of  his  own  skill, 
address,  and  strength.  Perhaps  it  was  his  very 
honest  modesty  that  made  him  so  popular  and  so 
heartily  liked  by  all. 

He  had  by  this  time  risen  to  the  place  of  head 
squire  or  chief  bachelor,  holding  the  same  position 
that  Walter  Blunt  had  occupied  when  he  himself 
had  first  come,  a  raw  country  boy,  to  Devlen.  The 
lesser  squires  and  pages  fairly  worshipped  him  as 
a  hero,  albeit  imposing  upon  his  good-nature.  All 
took  a  pride  in  his  practice  in  knightly  exercises, 
and  fabulous  tales  were  current  among  the  young 
fry  concerning  his  strength  and  skill. 

Yet,  although  Myles  was  now  at  the  head  of  his 

193 


class,  he  did  not,  as  other  chief  bachelors  had 
done,  take  a  leading  position  among  the  squires  in 
the  Earl's  household  service.  Lord  Mackworth,  for 
his  own  good  reasons,  relegated  him  to  the  posi- 
tion of  Lord  George's  especial  attendant.  Never- 
theless, the  Earl  always  distinguished  him  from 
the  other  esquires,  giving  him  a  cool  nod  when- 
ever they  met;  and  Myles,  upon  his  part — now 
that  he  had  learned  better  to  appreciate  how 
much  his  Lord  had  done  for  him — would  have 
shed  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins  for  the 
head  of  the  house  of  Beaumont. 

As  for  the  two  young  ladies,  he  often  saw  them, 
and  sometimes,  even  in  the  presence  of  the  Earl, 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  them,  and  Lord 
Mackworth  neither  forbade  it  nor  seemed  to  no- 
tice it. 

Towards  the  Lady  Anne  he  felt  the  steady 
friendly  regard  of  a  lad  for  a  girl  older  than  him- 
self; towards  the  Lady  Alice,  now  budding  into 
ripe  young  womanhood,  there  lay  deep  in  his 
heart  the  resolve  to  be  some  day  her  true  knight  in 
earnest  as  he  had  been  her  knight  in  pretence  in 
that  time  of  boyhood  when  he  had  so  perilously 
climbed  into  the  privy  garden. 

In  body  and  form  he  was  now  a  man,  and  in 
thought  and  heart  was  quickly  ripening  to  man- 

194 


hood,  for,  as  was  said  before,  men  matured 
quickly  in  those  days.  He  was  a  right  comely 
youth,  for  the  promise  of  his  boyish  body  had 
been  fulfilled  in  a  tall,  powerful,  well-knit  frame. 
His  face  was  still  round  and  boyish,  but  on  cheek 
and  chin  and  lip  was  the  curl  of  adolescent  beard 
— soft,  yellow,  and  silky.  His  eyes  were  as  blue  as 
steel,  and  quick  and  sharp  in  glance  as  those  of  a 
hawk;  and  as  he  walked,  his  arms  swung  from  his 
broad,  square  shoulders,  and  his  body  swayed 
with  pent-up  strength  ready  for  action  at  any  mo- 
ment. 

If  little  Lady  Alice,  hearing  much  talk  of  his 
doings  and  of  his  promise  in  these  latter  times, 
thought  of  him  now  and  then  it  is  a  matter  not 
altogether  to  be  wondered  at. 

Such  were  the  changes  that  three  years  had 
wrought.  And  from  now  the  story  of  his  manhood 
really  begins. 

Perhaps  in  all  the  history  of  Devlen  Castle,  even 
at  this,  the  high  tide  of  pride  and  greatness  of  the 
house  of  Beaumont,  the  most  notable  time  was  in 
the  early  autumn  of  the  year  1411,  when  for  five 
days  King  Henry  IV  was  entertained  by  the  Earl 
of  Mackworth.  The  King  was  at  that  time  making 
a  progress  through  certain  of  the  midland  coun- 

195 


ties,  and  with  him  travelled  the  Comte  de  Ver- 
moise.  The  Count  was  the  secret  emissary  of  the 
Dauphin's  faction  in  France,  at  that  time  in  the 
very  bitterest  intensity  of  the  struggle  with  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  had  come  to  England 
seeking  aid  for  his  master  in  his  quarrel. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  royalty  had  visited 
Devlen.  Once,  in  Earl  Robert's  day.  King  Edward 
II  had  spent  a  week  at  the  castle  during  the 
period  of  the  Scottish  wars.  But  at  that  time  it  was 
little  else  than  a  military  post,  and  was  used  by  the 
King  as  such.  Now  the  Beaumonts  were  in  the 
very  flower  of  their  prosperity,  and  preparations 
were  made  for  the  coming  visit  of  royalty  upon  a 
scale  of  such  magnificence  and  splendor  as  Earl 
Robert,  or  perhaps  even  King  Edward  himself, 
had  never  dreamed. 

For  weeks  the  whole  castle  had  been  alive  with 
folk  hurrying  hither  and  thither;  and  with  the 
daily  and  almost  hourly  coming  of  pack-horses, 
laden  with  bales  and  boxes,  from  London.  From 
morning  to  night  one  heard  the  ceaseless  chip- 
chipping  of  the  masons'  hammers,  and  saw  car- 
riers of  stones  and  mortar  ascending  and  descend- 
ing the  ladders  of  the  scaffolding  that  covered  the 
face  of  the  great  North  Hall.  Within,  that  part  of 
the  building  was  alive  with  the  scraping  of  the 

196 


1 


Tlie  Earl  of  Mackworth  received  King  Henry  IV. 


carpenters'  saws,  the  clattering  of  lumber,  and  the 
rapping  and  banging  of  hammers. 

The  North  Hall  had  been  assigned  as  the  lodg- 
ing place  for  the  King  and  his  court,  and  St. 
George's  Hall  (as  the  older  building  adjoining  it 
was  called)  had  been  set  apart  as  the  lodging  of 
the  Comte  de  Vermoise  and  the  knights  and  gen- 
tlemen attendant  upon  him. 

The  great  North  Hall  had  been  very  much 
altered  and  changed  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
King  and  his  people;  a  beautiful  gallery  of  carved 
wood-work  had  been  built  within  and  across  the 
south  end  of  the  room  for  the  use  of  the  ladies  who 
were  to  look  down  upon  the  ceremonies  below. 
Two  additional  windows  had  been  cut  through  the 
wall  and  glazed,  and  passage-ways  had  been 
opened  connecting  with  the  royal  apartments  be- 
yond. In  the  bedchamber  a  bed  of  carved  wood 
and  silver  had  been  built  into  the  wall,  and  had 
been  draped  with  hangings  of  pale  blue  and  silver, 
and  a  magnificent  screen  of  \vrought-iron  and 
carved  wood  had  been  erected  around  the  couch; 
rich  and  beautiful  tapestries  brought  from  Italy 
and  Flanders  were  himg  upon  the  walls;  cushions 
of  velvets  and  silks  stuffed  with  down  covered 
benches  and  chairs.  The  floor  of  the  hall  was 
spread  with  mats  of  rushes  stained  in  various  col- 

197 


ors,  woven  into  curious  patterns,  and  in  the 
smaller  rooms  precious  carpets  of  arras  were  laid 
on  the  cold  stones. 

All  of  the  cadets  of  the  House  had  been  assem- 
bled; all  of  the  gentlemen  in  waiting,  retainers  and 
clients.  The  castle  seemed  full  to  overflowing; 
even  the  dormitory  of  the  squires  was  used  as  a 
lodging  place  for  many  of  the  lesser  gentry. 

So  at  last,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  bustle  of  prep- 
aration, came  the  day  of  days  when  the  King  was 
to  arrive.  The  day  before  a  courier  had  come 
bringing  the  news  that  he  was  lodging  at  Donaster 
Abbey  overnight,  and  would  make  progress  the 
next  day  to  Devlen. 

That  morning,  as  Myles  was  marshalling  the 
pages  and  squires,  and,  with  the  list  of  names  in 
his  hand,  was  striving  to  evolve  some  order  out  of 
the  confusion,  assigning  the  various  individuals 
their  special  duties — these  to  attend  in  the  house- 
hold, those  to  ride  in  the  escort — one  of  the  gen- 
tlemen of  Lord  George's  household  came  with  an 
order  for  him  to  come  immediately  to  the  young 
nobleman's  apartments.  Myles  hastily  turned  over 
his  duties  to  Gascoyne  and  Wilkes,  and  then  hur- 
ried after  the  messenger.  He  found  Lord  George  in 
the  antechamber,  three  gentlemen  squires  arming 
him  in  a  magnificent  suit  of  ribbed  Milan. 

198 


He  greeted  Myles  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  as 
the  lad  entered.  "Sirrah,"  said  he,  "I  have  had  a 
talk  with  Mackworth  this  morn  concerning  thee, 
and  have  a  mind  to  do  thee  an  honor  in  my  poor 
way.  How  wouldst  thou  like  to  ride  to-day  as  my 
special  squire  of  escort?" 

Myles  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "Oh,  sir!" 
he  cried,  eagerly,  "an  I  be  not  too  ungainly  for  thy 
purpose,  no  honor  in  all  the  world  could  be  such 
joy  to  me  as  that!" 

Lord  George  laughed.  "A  little  matter  pleases 
thee  hugely,"  said  he;  "but  as  to  being  ungainly, 
who  so  sayeth  that  of  thee  belieth  thee,  Myles; 
thou  art  not  ungainly,  sirrah.  But  that  is  not  to 
the  point.  I  have  chosen  thee  for  my  equerry  to- 
day; so  make  thou  haste  and  don  thine  armor,  and 
then  come  hither  again,  and  Hollingwood  will  fit 
thee  with  a  wreathed  bascinet  I  have  within,  and  a 
juppon  embroidered  with  my  arms  and  colors." 

When  Myles  had  made  his  bow  and  left  his 
patron,  he  flew  across  the  quadrangle,  and  burst 
into  the  armory  upon  Gascoyne,  whom  he  found 
still  lingering  there,  chatting  with  one  or  two  of 
the  older  bachelors. 

"What  thinkest  thou,  Francis?"  he  cried,  wild 
with  excitement.  "An  honor  hath  been  done  me 
this  day  I  could  never  have  hoped  to  enjoy.  Out  of 

199 


all  this  household.  Lord  George  hath  chose  me  his 
equerry  for  the  day  to  ride  to  meet  the  King. 
Come,  hasten  to  help  me  to  arm!  Art  thou  not  glad 
of  this  thing  for  my  sake,  Francis?" 

"Aye,  glad  am  I  indeed!"  cried  Gascoyne,  that 
generous  friend;  "rather  almost  would  I  have  this 
befall  thee  than  myself!"  And  indeed  he  was 
hardly  less  jubilant  than  Myles  over  the  honor. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  busy  arming  him  in 
the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  dormitory  which 
had  been  lately  set  apart  for  the  use  of  the  head 
bachelor.  "And  to  think,"  he  said,  looking  up  as  he 
kneeled,  strapping  the  thigh-plates  to  his  friend's 
legs,  "that  he  should  have  chosen  thee  before  all 
others  of  the  fine  knights  and  lords  and  gentlemen 
of  quality  that  are  here!" 

"Yea,"  said  Myles,  "it  passeth  wonder.  I  know 
not  why  he  should  so  single  me  out  for  such  an 
honor.  It  is  strangely  marvellous." 

"Nay,"  said  Gascoyne,  "there  is  no  marvel  in  it, 
and  I  know  right  well  why  he  chooseth  thee.  It  is 
because  he  sees,  as  we  all  see,  that  thou  art  the 
stoutest  and  the  best-skilled  in  arms,  and  most 
easy  of  carriage  of  any  man  in  all  this  place." 

Myles  laughed.  "An  thou  make  sport  of  me," 
said  he,  "I'll  rap  thy  head  with  this  dagger  hilt. 
Thou  art  a  silly  fellow,  Francis,  to  talk  so.  But  tell 

200 


me,  hast  thou  heard  who  rides  with  my  Lord?" 

"Yea,  I  heard  Wilkes  say  anon  that  it  was  Sir 
James  Lee." 

"I  am  right  glad  of  that,"  said  Myles;  "for  then 
he  will  show  me  what  to  do  and  how  to  bear  my- 
self. It  frights  me  to  think  what  would  hap  should 
I  make  some  mistake  in  my  awkwardness.  Me- 
thinks  Lord  George  would  never  have  me  with 
him  more  should  I  do  amiss  this  day." 

"Never  fear,"  said  Gascoyne;  "thou  wilt  not  do 
amiss." 

And  now,  at  last,  the  Earl,  Lord  George,  and  all 
their  escort  were  ready;  then  the  orders  were 
given  to  horse,  the  bugle  sounded,  and  away  they 
all  rode,  with  clashing  of  iron  hoofs  and  ringing 
and  jingling  of  armor,  out  into  the  dewy  freshness 
of  the  early  morning,  the  slant  yellow  sun  of 
autumn  blazing  and  flaming  upon  polished  hel- 
mets and  shields,  and  twinkling  like  sparks  of  fire 
upon  spear  points.  Myles's  heart  thrilled  within 
him  for  pure  joy,  and  he  swelled  out  his  sturdy 
young  breast  with  great  draughts  of  the  sweet 
fresh  air  that  came  singing  across  the  sunny  hill- 
tops. Sir  James  Lee,  who  acted  as  the  Earl's 
equerry  for  the  day,  rode  at  a  little  distance,  and 
there  was  an  almost  pathetic  contrast  between  the 
grim,   steadfast   impassiveness   of  the   tough   old 

201 


warrior  and  Myles's  passionate  exuberance  of 
youth. 

At  the  head  of  the  party  rode  the  Earl  and  his 
brother  side  by  side,  each  clad  cap-a-pie  in  a  suit 
of  Milan  armor,  the  cuirass  of  each  covered  with  a 
velvet  juppon  embroidered  in  silver  with  the  arms 
and  quarterings  of  the  Beaumonts.  The  Earl  wore 
around  his  neck  an  "S  S"  collar,  with  a  jewelled  St. 
George  hanging  from  it,  and  upon  his  head  a 
vizored  bascinet,  ornamented  with  a  wreath  cov- 
ered with  black  and  yellow  velvet  and  glistening 
with  jewels. 

Lord  George,  as  was  said  before,  was  clad  in  a 
beautiful  suit  of  ribbed  Milan  armor.  It  was 
rimmed  with  a  thin  thread  of  gold,  and,  like  his 
brother,  he  wore  a  bascinet  wreathed  with  black 
and  yellow  velvet. 

Behind  the  two  brothers  and  their  equerries 
rode  the  rest  in  their  proper  order — knights,  gen- 
tlemen, esquires,  men-at-arms — to  the  number, 
perhaps,  of  two  hundred  and  fifty;  s|>ears  and 
lances  aslant,  and  banners,  pennons,  and  pencels 
of  black  and  yellow  fluttering  in  the  warm  Sep- 
tember air. 

From  the  castle  to  the  town  they  rode,  and  then 
across  the  bridge,  and  thence  clattering  up 
through  the  stony  streets,  where  the  folk  looked 

202 


down  upon  them  from  the  windows  above,  or 
crowded  the  fronts  of  the  shops  of  the  tradesmen. 
Lusty  cheers  were  shouted  for  the  Earl,  but  the 
great  Lord  rode  staring  ever  straight  before  him, 
as  unmoved  as  a  stone.  Then  out  of  the  town  they 
clattered,  and  away  in  a  sweeping  cloud  of  dust 
across  the  country-side. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  reached  the  windy  top 
of  Willoughby  Croft,  ten  miles  away,  that  they 
met  the  King  and  his  company.  As  the  two  parties 
approached  to  within  forty  or  fifty  yards  of  one 
another  they  stopped. 

As  they  came  to  a  halt,  Myles  observed  that 
a  gentleman  dressed  in  a  plain  blue-gray  riding- 
habit,  and  sitting  upon  a  beautiful  white  gelding, 
stood  a  little  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the  party, 
and  he  knew  that  that  must  be  the  King.  Then  Sir 
James  nodded  to  Myles,  and  leaping  from  his 
horse,  flung  the  reins  to  one  of  the  attendants. 
Myles  did  the  like;  and  then,  still  following  Sir 
James's  lead  as  he  served  Lord  Mackworth,  went 
forward  and  held  Lord  George's  stirrup  while  he 
dismounted.  The  two  noblemen  quickly  removed 
each  his  bascinet,  and  Myles,  holding  the  bridle- 
rein  of  Lord  George's  horse  with  his  left  hand, 
took  the  helmet  in  his  right,  resting  it  upon  his 
hip. 

203 


Then  the  two  brothers  walked  forward  bare- 
headed, the  Earl,  a  little  in  advance.  Reaching  the 
King  he  stopped,  and  then  bent  his  knee — stiffly  in 
the  armored  plates — until  it  touched  the  ground. 
Thereupon  the  King  reached  him  his  hand,  and 
he,  rising  again,  took  it,  and  set  it  to  his  lips. 

Then  Lord  George,  advancing,  kneeled  as  his 
brother  had  kneeled,  and  to  him  also  the  King 
gave  his  hand. 

Myles  could  hear  nothing,  but  he  could  see  that 
a  few  words  of  greeting  passed  between  the  three, 
and  then  the  King,  turning,  beckoned  to  a  knight 
who  stood  just  behind  him  and  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  others  of  the  troop.  In  answer,  the  knight 
rode  forward;  the  King  spoke  a  few  words  of  in- 
troduction, and  the  stranger,  ceremoniously  draw- 
ing off  his  right  gauntlet,  clasped  the  hand,  first  of 
the  Earl,  and  then  of  Lord  George.  Myles  knew 
that  he  must  be  the  great  Comte  de  Vermoise,  of 
whom  he  had  heard  so  much  of  late. 

A  few  moments  of  conversation  followed,  and 
then  the  King  bowed  slightly.  The  French  noble- 
man instantly  reined  back  his  horse,  an  order  was 
given,  and  then  the  whole  company  moved  for- 
ward, the  two  brothers  walking  upon  either  side  of 
the  King,  the  Earl  lightly  touching  the  bridle-rein 
with  his  bare  hand. 


204 


Whilst  all  this  was  passing,  the  Earl  of  Mack- 
worth's  company  had  been  drawn  up  in  a  double 
line  along  the  road-side,  leaving  the  way  open  to 
the  other  party.  As  the  King  reached  the  head  of 
the  troop,  another  halt  followed  while  he  spoke  a 
few  courteous  words  of  greeting  to  some  of  the 
lesser  nobles  attendant  upon  the  Earl  whom  he 
knew. 

In  that  little  time  he  was  within  a  few  paces  of 
Myles,  who  stood  motionless  as  a  statue,  holding 
the  bascinet  and  the  bridle-rein  of  Lord  George's 
horse. 

What  Myles  saw  was  a  plain,  rather  stout  man, 
with  a  face  fat,  smooth,  and  waxy,  with  pale-blue 
eyes,  and  baggy  in  the  lids;  clean  shaven,  except 
for  a  mustache  and  tuft  covering  lips  and  chin. 
Somehow  he  felt  a  deep  disappointment.  He  had 
expected  to  see  something  lion-like,  something 
regal,  and,  after  all,  the  great  King  Henry  was 
commonplace,  fat,  unwholesome-looking.  It  came 
to  him  with  a  sort  of  a  shock  that,  after  all,  a  King 
was  in  nowise  different  from  other  men. 

Meanwhile  the  Earl  and  his  brother  replaced 
their  bascinets,  and  presently  the  whole  party 
moved  forward  upon  the  way  to  Mackworth. 


205 


CHAPTER  23 


U, 


HAT  SAME  afternoon  the  squires'  quarters 
were  thrown  into  such  a  ferment  of  excitement  as 
had,  perhaps,  never  before  stirred  them.  About 
one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  Earl  himself  and 
Lord  George  came  walking  slowly  across  the 
Armory  Court  wrapped  in  deep  conversation,  and 
entered  Sir  James  Lee's  office. 

All  the  usual  hubbub  of  noise  that  surrounded 
the  neighborhood  of  the  dormitory  and  the  armory 
was  stilled  at  their  coming,  and  when  the  two 
noblemen  had  entered  Sir  James's  office,  the  lads 
and  young  men  gathered  in  knots  discussing  with 
an  almost  awesome  interest  what  that  visit  might 
portend. 

After  some  time  Sir  James  Lee  came  to  the  door 
at  the  head  of  the  long  flight  of  stone  steps,  and 
whistling,  beckoned  one  of  the  smaller  pages  to 

206 


him.  He  gave  a  short  order  that  sent  the  little 
fellow  flying  on  some  mission.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  minutes  he  returned,  hurrying  across  the 
stony  court  with  Myles  Falworth,  who  presently 
entered  Sir  James's  office.  It  was  then  and  at  this 
sight  that  the  intense  half-suppressed  excitement 
reached  its  height  of  fever-heat.  What  did  it  all 
mean?  The  air  was  filled  with  a  thousand  vague, 
wild  rumors — but  the  very  wildest  surmises  fell 
short  of  the  real  truth. 

Perhaps  Myles  was  somewhat  pale  when  he  en- 
tered the  office;  certainly  his  nerves  were  in  a 
tremor,  for  his  heart  told  him  that  something  very 
portentous  was  about  to  befall  him.  The  Earl  sat 
at  the  table,  and  in  the  seat  that  Sir  James  Lee 
usually  occupied;  Lord  George  half  sat,  half 
leaned  in  the  window-place.  Sir  James  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  empty  fireplace,  and  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him.  All  three  were  very  serious. 

"Give  thee  good  den,  Myles  Falworth,"  said  the 
Earl,  as  Myles  bowed  first  to  him  and  then  to  the 
others;  "and  I  would  have  thee  prepare  thyself  for 
a  great  happening."  Then,  continuing  directly  to 
the  point:  "Thou  knowest,  sirrah,  why  we  have 
been  training  thee  so  closely  these  three  years 
gone;  it  is  that  thou  shouldst  be  able  to  hold  thine 
own  in  the  world.  Nay,  not  only  hold  thine  own, 

207 


but  to  show  thyself  to  be  a  knight  of  prowess 
shouldst  it  come  to  a  battle  between  thee  and  thy 
father's  enemy;  for  there  lieth  no  half-way  place 
for  thee,  and  thou  must  be  either  great  or  else 
nothing.  Well,  sir,  the  time  hath  now  come  for 
thee  to  show  thy  mettle.  I  would  rather  have 
chosen  that  thou  hadst  labored  a  twelvemonth 
longer;  but  now,  as  I  said,  hath  come  a  chance  to 
prove  thyself  that  may  never  come  again.  Sir 
James  tells  me  that  thou  art  passably  ripe  in  skill. 
Thou  must  now  show  whether  that  be  so  or  no. 
Hast  thou  ever  heard  of  the  Sieur  de  la  Mon- 
taigne?" 

"Yea,  my  Lord.  I  have  heard  of  him  often,"  an- 
swered Myles.  "It  was  he  who  won  the  prize  at  the 
great  tourney  at  Rochelle  last  year." 

"I  see  that  thou  hast  his  fame  pat  to  thy  tongue's 
end,"  said  the  Earl;  "he  is  the  chevalier  of  whom  I 
speak,  and  he  is  reckoned  the  best  knight  of 
Dauphiny.  That  one  of  which  thou  spokest  was 
the  third  great  tourney  in  which  he  was  adjudged 
the  victor.  I  am  glad  that  thou  boldest  his  prowess 
highly.  Knowest  thou  that  he  is  in  the  train  of  the 
Comte  de  Vermoise?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles,  flushing;  "I  did  hear  news  he 
was  in  England,  but  knew  not  that  he  was  in  this 
place." 

208 


"Yea,"  said  Lord  Mackworth;  "he  is  here."  He 
paused  for  a  moment;  then  said,  suddenly.  "Tell 
me,  Myles  Falworth,  an  thou  wert  a  knight  and  of 
rank  fit  to  run  a  joust  with  the  Sieur  de  la  Mon- 
taigne, wouldst  thou  dare  encounter  him  in  the 
lists?" 

The  Earl's  question  fell  upon  Myles  so  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  that  for  a  moment  or  so  he  stood 
staring  at  the  speaker  with  mouth  agape.  Mean- 
while the  Earl  sat  looking  calmly  back  at  him, 
slowly  stroking  his  beard  the  while. 

It  was  Sir  James  Lee's  voice  that  broke  the  si- 
lence. "Thou  heardst  thy  Lord  speak,"  said  he, 
harshly.  "Hast  thou  no  tongue  to  answer,  sirrah?" 

"Be  silent,  Lee,"  said  Lord  Mackworth,  quietly. 
"Let  the  lad  have  time  to  think  before  he  speak- 
eth." 

The  sound  of  the  words  aroused  Myles.  He  ad- 
vanced to  the  table,  and  rested  his  hand  upon  it. 
"My  Lord — my  Lord,"  said  he,  "I  know  not  what 
to  say,  I — I  am  amazed  and  afeard." 

"How!  how!"  cried  Sir  James  Lee,  harshly. 
"Afeard,  sayst  thou?  An  thou  art  afeard,  thou 
knave,  thou  needst  never  look  upon  my  face  or 
speak  to  me  more!  I  have  done  with  thee  forever 
an  thou  art  afeard  even  were  the  champion  a  Sir 
Alisander." 


209 


"Peace,  peace,  Lee,"  said  the  Earl,  holding  up 
his  hand.  "Thou  art  too  hasty.  The  lad  shall  have 
his  will  in  this  matter,  and  thou  and  no  one  shall 
constrain  him.  Methinks,  also,  thou  dost  not  un- 
derstand him.  Speak  from  thy  heart,  Myles;  why 
art  thou  afraid?" 

"Because,"  said  Myles,  "I  am  so  young,  sir;  I  am 
but  a  raw  boy.  How  should  I  dare  be  so  hardy  as 
to  venture  to  set  lance  against  such  an  one  as  the 
Sieur  de  la  Montaigne?  What  would  I  be  but  a 
laughing-stock  for  all  the  world  who  would  see  me 
so  foolish  as  to  venture  me  against  one  of  such 
prowess  and  skill?" 

"Nay,  Myles,"  said  Lord  George,  "thou  thinkest 
not  well  enough  of  thine  own  skill  and  prowess. 
Thinkest  thou  we  would  undertake  to  set  thee 
against  him,  an  we  did  not  think  that  thou  couldst 
hold  thine  own  fairly  well?" 

"Hold  mine  own?"  cried  Myles,  turning  to  Lord 
George.  "Sir;  thou  dost  not  mean — thou  canst  not 
mean,  that  I  may  hope  or  dream  to  hold  mine  own 
against  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne." 

"Aye,"  said  Lord  George,  "that  was  what  I  did 
mean." 

"Come,  Myles,"  said  the  Earl;  "now  tell  me: 
wilt  thou  fight  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne?" 

"Yea,"  said  Myles,  drawing  himself  to  his  full 

210 


height  and  throwing  out  his  chest.  "Yea,"  and  his 
cheeks  and  forehead  flushed  red;  "an  thou  bid  me 
do  so,  I  will  fight  him." 

"There  spake  my  brave  lad!"  cried  Lord  George 
heartily. 

"I  give  thee  joy,  Myles,"  said  the  Earl,  reaching 
him  his  hand,  which  Myles  took  and  kissed.  "And 
I  give  thee  double  joy.  I  have  talked  with  the  King 
concerning  thee  this  morning,  and  he  hath  con- 
sented to  knight  thee — yea,  to  knight  thee  with  all 
honors  of  the  Bath — provided  thou  wilt  match 
thee  against  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  for  the 
honor  of  England  and  Mackworth.  Just  now  the 
King  lieth  to  sleep  for  a  little  while  after  his  din- 
ner; have  thyself  in  readiness  when  he  cometh 
forth,  and  I  will  have  thee  presented." 

Then  the  Earl  turned  to  Sir  James  Lee,  and 
questioned  him  as  to  how  the  bachelors  were 
fitted  with  clothes.  Myles  listened,  only  half  hear- 
ing the  words  through  the  tumbling  of  his 
thoughts.  He  had  dreamed  in  his  day-dreams  that 
some  time  he  might  be  knighted,  but  that  time 
always  seemed  very,  very  distant.  To  be  knighted 
now,  in  his  boyhood,  by  the  King,  with  the  honors 
of  the  Bath,  and  under  the  patronage  of  the  Earl 
of  Mackworth;  to  joust — to  actually  joust — with 
the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne,  one  of  the  most  famous 

211 


chevaliers  of  France!  No  wonder  he  only  half 
heard  the  words;  half  heard  the  Earl's  questions 
concerning  his  clothes  and  the  discussion  which 
followed;  half  heard  Lord  George  volunteer  to 
array  him  in  fitting  garments  from  his  own  ward- 
robe. 

"Thou  mayst  go  now,"  said  the  Earl,  at  last  turn- 
ing to  him.  "But  be  thou  at  George's  apartments 
by  two  of  the  clock  to  be  dressed  fittingly  for  the 
occasion." 

Then  Myles  went  out  stupefied,  dazed,  bewil- 
dered. He  looked  around,  but  he  did  not  see  Gas- 
coyne.  He  said  not  a  word  to  any  of  the  others  in 
answer  to  the  eager  questions  poured  upon  him  by 
his  fellow-squires,  but  walked  straight  away.  He 
hardly  knew  where  he  went,  but  by-and-by  he 
found  himself  in  a  grassy  angle  below  the  end  of 
the  south  stable;  a  spot  overlooking  the  outer  wall 
and  the  river  beyond.  He  looked  around;  no  one 
was  near,  and  he  flung  himself  at  length,  burying 
his  face  in  his  arms.  How  long  he  lay  there  he  did 
not  know,  but  suddenly  some  one  touched  him 
upon  the  shoulder,  and  he  sprang  up  quickly.  It 
was  Gascoyne. 

"What  is  to  do,  Myles?"  said  his  friend,  anx- 
iously. "What  is  all  this  talk  I  hear  concerning 
thee  up  yonder  at  the  armory?" 

"Oh,  Francis!"  cried  Myles,  with  a  husky  chok- 

212 


ing  voice:  "I  am  to  be  knighted — by  the  King — by 
the  King  himself:  and  I — I  am  to  fight  the  Sieur  de 
la  Montaigne." 

He  reached  out  his  hand,  and  Gascoyne  took  it. 
They  stood  for  a  while  quite  silent,  and  when  at 
last  the  stillness  was  broken,  it  was  Gascoyne  who 
spoke,  in  a  choking  voice. 

"Thou  art  going  to  be  great,  Myles,"  said  he.  "I 
always  knew  that  it  must  be  so  with  thee,  and  now 
the  time  hath  come.  Yea,  thou  wilt  be  great,  and 
live  at  court  amongst  noble  folk,  and  Kings  haply. 
Presently  thou  wilt  not  be  with  me  any  more,  and 
wilt  forget  me  by-and-by." 

"Nay,  Francis,  never  will  I  forget  thee!"  an- 
swered Myles,  pressing  his  friend's  hand.  "I  will 
always  love  thee  better  than  any  one  in  the  world, 
saving  only  my  father  and  my  mother." 

Gascoyne  shook  his  head  and  looked  away, 
swallowing  at  the  dry  lump  in  his  throat.  Sud- 
denly he  turned  to  Myles.  "Wilt  thou  grant  me  a 
boon?" 

"Yea,"  answered  Myles.  "What  is  it?" 

"That  thou  wilt  choose  me  for  thy  squire." 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "how  canst  thou  think  to 
serve  me  as  squire?  Thou  wilt  be  a  knight  thyself 
some  day,  Francis,  and  why  dost  thou  wish  now  to 
be  my  squire?" 

"Because,"  said  Gascoyne,  with  a  short  laugh,  "I 

213 


would  rather  be  in  thy  company  as  a  squire  than 
in  mine  own  as  a  knight,  even  if  I  might  be  ban- 
neret." 

Myles  flung  his  arm  around  his  friend's  neck, 
and  kissed  him  upon  the  cheek.  "Thou  shalt  have 
thy  will,"  said  he;  "but  whether  knight  or  squire, 
thou  art  ever  mine  own  true  friend." 

Then  they  went  slowly  back  together,  hand  in 
hand,  to  the  castle  world  again. 

At  two  o'clock  Myles  went  to  Lord  George's 
apartments,  and  there  his  friend  and  patron 
dressed  him  out  in  a  costume  better  fitted  for  the 
ceremony  of  presentation — a  fur-trimmed  jacket 
of  green  brocaded  velvet  embroidered  with  golden 
thread,  a  black  velvet  hood-cap  rolled  like  a 
turban  and  with  a  jewel  in  the  front,  a  pair  of 
crimson  hose,  and  a  pair  of  black  velvet  shoes 
trimmed  and  stitched  with  gold-thread.  Myles  had 
never  worn  such  splendid  clothes  in  his  life  before, 
and  he  could  not  but  feel  that  they  became  him 
well. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  as  he  looked  down  at  himself, 
"sure  it  is  not  lawful  for  me  to  wear  such  clothes 
as  these." 

In  those  days  there  was  a  law,  known  as  a 
sumptuary  law,  which  regulated  by  statute  the 
clothes  that  each  class  of  people  were  privileged 

214 


to  wear.  It  was,  as  Myles  said,  against  the  law  for 
him  to  wear  such  garments  as  those  in  which  he 
was  clad — either  velvet,  crimson  stuff,  fur  or  silver 
or  gold  embroidery — nevertheless  such  a  solemn 
ceremony  as  presentation  to  the  King  excused  the 
temporary  overstepping  of  the  law,  and  so  Lord 
George  told  him.  As  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
lad's  shoulder  and  held  him  off  at  arm's-length,  he 
added,  "And  I  pledge  thee  my  word,  Myles,  that 
thou  art  as  lusty  and  handsome  a  lad  as  ever  mine 
eyes  beheld." 

"Thou  art  very  kind  to  me,  sir,"  said  Myles.  in 
answer. 

Lord  George  laughed:  and  then  giving  him  a 
shake,  let  go  his  shoulder. 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  when  little  Edmond 
de  Montefort,  Lord  Mackworth's  favorite  page, 
came  with  word  that  the  King  was  then  walking  in 
the  Earl's  pleasance. 

"Come,  Myles,"  said  Lord  George,  and  then 
Myles  arose  from  the  seat  where  he  had  been  sit- 
ting, his  heart  palpitating  and  throbbing  tumul- 
tuously. 

At  the  wicket-gate  of  the  pleasance  two  gen- 
tlemen-at-arms stood  guard  in  half-armor;  they 
saluted  Lord  George,  and  permitted  him  to  pass 
with  his  protege.  As  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 

215 


latch  of  the  wicket  he  paused  for  a  moment  and 
turned. 

"Myles,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "thou  art  a 
thoughtful  and  cautious  lad;  for  thy  father's  sake 
be  thoughtful  and  cautious  now.  Do  not  speak  his 
name  or  betray  that  thou  art  his  son."  Then  he 
opened  the  wicket-gate  and  entered. 

Any  lad  of  Myles's  age,  even  one  far  more  used 
to  the  world  than  he,  would  perhaps  have  felt  all 
the  oppression  that  he  experienced  under  the 
weight  of  such  a  presentation.  He  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  doing  as  Lord  George  led  him  to 
where  the  King  stood,  a  little  apart  from  the  at- 
tendants, with  the  Earl  and  the  Comte  de  Ver- 
moise.  Even  in  his  confusion  he  knew  enough  to 
kneel,  and  somehow  his  honest,  modest  diffidence 
became  the  young  fellow  very  well.  He  was  not 
awkward,  for  one  so  healthful  in  mind  and  body  as 
he  could  not  bear  himself  very  ill,  and  he  felt  the 
assurance  that  in  Lord  George  he  had  a  kind 
friend  at  his  side,  and  one  well  used  to  court  cer- 
emonies to  lend  him  countenance.  Then  there  is 
something  always  pleasing  in  frank,  modest  man- 
liness such  as  was  stamped  on  Myles's  handsome, 
sturdy  face.  No  doubt  the  King's  heart  warmed 
towards  the  fledgling  warrior  kneeling  in  the  path- 
way before  him.  He  smiled  very  kindly  as  he  gave 

216 


Lord  George  led  him  to  ichere  the  King  stood. 


the  lad  his  hand  to  kiss,  and  that  ceremony  done, 
held  fast  to  the  hard,  brown,  sinewy  fist  of  the 
young  man  with  his  soft  white  hand,  and  raised 
him  to  his  feet. 

"By  the  mass!"  said  he,  looking  Myles  over  with 
smiling  eyes,  "thou  art  a  right  champion  in  good 
sooth.  Such  as  thou  art  haply  was  Sir  Galahad 
when  he  came  to  Arthur's  court.  And  so  they  tell 
me,  thou  hast  stomach  to  brook  the  Sieur  de  la 
Montaigne,  that  tough  old  boar  of  Dauphiny.  Hast 
thou  in  good  sooth  the  courage  to  face  him? 
Knowest  thou  what  a  great  thing  it  is  that  thou 
hast  set  upon  thyself — to  do  battle,  even  in  sport, 
with  him?" 

"Yea,  your  Majesty,"  answered  Myles,  "well  I 
wot  it  is  a  task  haply  beyond  me.  But  gladly  would 
I  take  upon  me  even  a  greater  venture,  and  one 
more  dangerous,  to  do  your  Majesty's  pleasure!" 

The  King  looked  pleased.  "Now  that  was  right 
well  said,  young  man,"  said  he,  "and  I  like  it  better 
that  it  came  from  such  young  and  honest  lips. 
Dost  thou  speak  French?" 

"Yea,  your  Majesty,"  answered  Myles.  "In  some 
small  measure  do  I  so." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  the  King;  "for  so  I  may 
make  thee  acquainted  with  Sieur  de  la  Mon- 
taigne." 

217 


He  turned  as  he  ended  speaking,  and  beckoned 
to  a  heavy,  thick-set,  black-browed  chevalier  who 
stood  with  the  other  gentlemen  attendants  at  a 
little  distance.  He  came  instantly  forward  in  an- 
swer to  the  summons,  and  the  King  introduced  the 
two  to  one  another.  As  each  took  the  other  for- 
mally by  the  hand,  he  measured  his  opponent 
hastily,  body  and  limb,  and  perhaps  each  thought 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  stronger,  stouter,  better- 
knit  man  than  the  one  upon  whom  he  looked.  But 
nevertheless  the  contrast  betwixt  the  two  was  very 
great — Myles,  young,  boyish,  fresh-faced;  the 
other,  bronzed,  weather  beaten,  and  seamed  with 
a  great  white  scar  that  ran  across  his  forehead  and 
cheek;  the  one  a  novice,  the  other  a  warrior  sea- 
soned in  twoscore  battles. 

A  few  polite  phrases  passed  between  the  two, 
the  King  listening  smiling,  but  with  an  absent  and 
far-away  look  gradually  stealing  upon  his  face.  As 
they  ended  speaking,  a  little  pause  of  silence  fol- 
lowed, and  then  the  King  suddenly  aroused  him- 
self. 

"So,"  said  he,  "I  am  glad  that  ye  two  are  ac- 
quainted. And  now  we  will  leave  our  youthful 
champion  in  thy  charge,  Beaumont — and  in  thine, 
Mon  Sieur,  as  well — and  so  soon  as  the  proper  cer- 
emonies are  ended,  we  will  dub  him  knight  with 


218 


our  own  hands.  And  now,  Mackworth,  and  thou 
my  Lord  Count,  let  us  walk  a  little;  I  have  be- 
thought me  further  concerning  these  threescore 
extra  men  for  Dauphiny." 

Then  Myles  withdrew,  under  the  charge  of 
Lord  George  and  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  and 
while  the  King  and  the  two  nobles  walked  slowly 
up  and  down  the  gravel  path  between  the  tall  rose- 
bushes, Myles  stood  talking  with  the  gentlemen 
attendants,  finding  himself,  with  a  certain  trium- 
phant exultation,  the  peer  of  any  and  the  hero  of 
the  hour. 

That  night  was  the  last  that  Myles  and  Gas- 
coyne  spent  lodging  in  the  dormitory  in  their 
squirehood  service.  The  next  day  they  were  as- 
signed apartments  in  Lord  George's  part  of  the 
house,  and  thither  they  transported  themselves 
and  their  belongings,  amid  the  awestruck  wonder 
and  admiration  of  their  fellow-squires. 


219 


CHAPTER  24 


H 


N  MYLES  Falworth's  day  one  of  the  greatest 
ceremonies  of  courtly  life  was  that  of  the  bestowal 
of  knighthood  by  the  King,  with  the  honors  of  the 
Bath.  By  far  the  greater  number  of  knights  were  at 
that  time  created  by  other  knights,  or  by  nobles, 
or  by  officers  of  the  crown.  To  be  knighted  by  the 
King  in  person  distinguished  the  recipient  for  life. 
It  was  this  signal  honor  that  the  Earl,  for  his  own 
purposes,  wished  Myles  to  enjoy,  and  for  this  end 
he  had  laid  not  a  few  plans. 

The  accolade  was  the  term  used  for  the  creation 
of  a  knight  upon  the  field  of  battle.  It  was  a  re- 
ward of  valor  or  of  meritorious  service,  and  was 
generally  bestowed  in  a  more  or  less  off-hand  way; 
but  the  ceremony  of  the  Bath  was  an  occasion  of 
the  greatest  courtly  moment,  and  it  was  thus  that 

220 


Myles  Falworth  was  to  be  knighted  in  addition  to 
the  honor  of  a  royal  belting. 

A  quaint  old  book  treating  of  knighthood  and 
chivalry  gives  a  full  and  detailed  account  of  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  ceremony  of  a  creation  of  a 
Knight  of  the  Bath.  It  tells  us  that  the  candidate 
was  first  placed  under  the  care  of  two  squires  of 
honor,  "grave  and  well  seen  in  courtship  and 
nurture,  and  also  in  feats  of  chivalry,"  which  same 
were  likewise  to  be  governors  in  all  things  relating 
to  the  coming  honors. 

First  of  all,  the  barber  shaved  him,  and  cut  his 
hair  in  a  certain  peculiar  fashion  ordained  for  the 
occasion,  the  squires  of  honor  supervising  the  op- 
eration. This  being  concluded,  the  candidate  was 
solemnly  conducted  to  the  chamber  where  the 
bath  of  tepid  water  was  prepared,  "hung  within 
and  without  with  linen,  and  likewise  covered  with 
rich  cloths  and  embroidered  linen."  While  in  the 
bath  two  "ancient,  grave,  and  reverend  knights" 
attended  the  bachelor,  giving  him  "meet  instruc- 
tions in  the  order  and  feats  of  chivalry."  The  can- 
didate was  then  examined  as  to  his  knowledge  and 
acquirements,  and  then,  all  questions  being  an- 
swered to  the  satisfaction  of  his  examiners,  the 
elder  of  the  two  dipped  a  handful  of  water  out 
from  the  bath,  and  poured  it  upon  his  head,  at  the 

221 


same  time  signing  his  left  shoulder  with  the  sign 
of  the  cross. 

As  soon  as  this  ceremony  was  concluded,  the 
two  squires  of  honor  helped  their  charge  from  the 
bath,  and  conducted  him  to  a  plain  bed  without 
hangings,  where  they  let  him  rest  until  his  body 
was  warm  and  dry.  Then  they  clad  him  in  a  white 
linen  shirt,  and  over  it  a  plain  robe  of  russet, 
"girdled  about  the  loins  with  a  rope,  and  having  a 
hood  like  unto  a  hermit." 

As  soon  as  the  candidate  had  arisen,  the  two 
"ancient  knights"  returned,  and  all  being  in  readi- 
ness he  was  escorted  to  the  chapel,  the  two  walk- 
ing, one  upon  either  side  of  him,  his  squires  of 
honor  marching  before,  and  the  whole  party  pre- 
ceded by  "sundry  minstrels  making  a  loud  noise  of 
music." 

When  they  came  to  the  chapel,  the  two  knights 
who  escorted  him  took  leave  of  the  candidate, 
each  saluting  him  with  a  kiss  upon  the  cheek.  No 
one  remained  with  him  but  his  squires  of  honor, 
the  priest,  and  the  chandler. 

In  the  mean  time  the  novitiate's  armor,  sword, 
lance,  and  helmet  had  been  laid  in  readiness  be- 
fore the  altar.  These  he  watched  and  guarded 
while  the  others  slept,  keeping  vigil  until  sunrise, 
during  which  time  "he  shall,"  says  the  ancient 

222 


authority,  "pass  the  night  in  orisons,  prayers,  and 
meditation."  At  daylight  he  confessed  to  the 
priest,  heard  matins,  and  communicated  in  mass, 
and  then  presented  a  lighted  candle  at  the  altar, 
with  a  piece  of  money  stuck  in  it  as  close  to  the 
flame  as  could  be  done,  the  candle  being  offered  to 
the  honor  of  God,  and  the  money  to  the  honor  of 
that  person  who  was  to  make  him  a  knight. 

So  concluded  the  sacred  ceremony,  which  being 
ended  his  squires  conducted  the  candidate  to  his 
chamber,  and  there  made  him  comfortable,  and 
left  him  to  repose  for  a  while  before  the  second 
and  final  part  of  the  ordinance. 

Such  is  a  shortened  account  of  the  preparatory 
stages  of  the  ceremonies  through  which  Myles 
Fal worth  passed. 

Matters  had  come  upon  him  so  suddenly  one 
after  the  other,  and  had  come  with  such  bewilder- 
ing rapidity  that  all  that  week  was  to  him  like 
some  strange,  wonderful,  mysterious  vision.  He 
went  through  it  all  like  one  in  a  dream.  Lord 
George  Beaumont  was  one  of  his  squires  of  honor; 
the  other,  by  way  of  a  fitting  complement  to  the 
courage  of  the  chivalrous  lad,  was  the  Sieur  de  la 
Montaigne,  his  opponent  soon  to  be.  They  were 
well  versed  in  everything  relating  to  knightcraft, 
and  Myles  followed  all  their  directions  with  pas- 

223 


sive  obedience.  Then  Sir  James  Lee  and  the 
Comte  de  Vermoise  administered  the  ceremony  of 
the  Bath,  the  old  knight  examining  him  in  the  laws 
of  chivalry. 

It  occurs  perhaps  once  or  twice  in  one's  lifetime 
that  one  passes  through  great  happenings — some- 
times of  joy,  sometimes  of  dreadful  bitterness — in 
just  such  a  dazed  state  as  Myles  passed  through 
this.  It  is  only  afterwards  that  all  comes  back  to 
one  so  sharply  and  keenly  that  the  heart  thrills 
almost  in  agony  in  living  it  over  again.  But  per- 
haps of  all  the  memory  of  that  time,  when  it  af- 
terwards came  back  piece  by  piece,  none  was  so 
clear  to  Myles's  back-turned  vision  as  the  long 
night  spent  in  the  chapel,  watching  his  armor, 
thinking  such  wonderful  thoughts,  and  dreaming 
such  wonderful  wide-eyed  dreams.  At  such  times 
Myles  saw  again  the  dark  mystery  of  the  castle 
chapel;  he  saw  again  the  half-moon  gleaming 
white  and  silvery  through  the  tall,  narrow  win- 
dow, and  throwing  a  broad  form  of  still  whiteness 
across  stone  floor,  empty  seats,  and  still,  motion- 
less figures  of  stone  effigies.  At  such  times  he  stood 
again  in  front  of  the  twinkling  tapers  that  lit  the 
altar  where  his  armor  lay  piled  in  a  heap,  heard 
again  the  deep  breathing  of  his  companions  of  the 
watch  sleeping  in  some  empty  stall,  wrapped  each 

224 


in  his  cloak,  and  saw  the  old  chandler  bestir  him- 
self, and  rise  and  come  forward  to  snuff  the  can- 
dles. At  such  times  he  saw  again  the  day  growing 
clearer  and  clearer  through  the  tall,  glazed  win- 
dows, saw  it  change  to  a  rosy  pink,  and  then  to  a 
broad,  ruddy  glow  that  threw  a  halo  of  light 
around  Father  Thomas's  bald  head  bowed  in 
sleep,  and  lit  up  the  banners  and  trophies  hanging 
motionless  against  the  stony  face  of  the  west  wall; 
heard  again  the  stirring  of  life  without  and  the 
sound  of  his  companions  arousing  themselves;  saw 
them  come  forward,  and  heard  them  wish  him  joy 
that  his  long  watch  was  ended. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Myles  was  awakened 
from  a  fitful  sleep  by  Gascoyne  bringing  in  his 
dinner,  but,  as  might  be  supposed,  he  had  but  lit- 
tle hunger,  and  ate  sparingly.  He  had  hardly 
ended  his  frugal  meal  before  his  two  squires  of 
honor  came  in,  followed  by  a  servant  carrying  the 
garments  for  the  coming  ceremony.  He  saluted 
them  gravely,  and  then  arising,  washed  his  face 
and  hands  in  a  basin  which  Gascoyne  held;  then 
kneeled  in  prayer,  the  others  standing  silent  at  a 
little  distance.  As  he  arose,  Lord  George  came 
forward. 

"The  King  and  the  company  come  presently  to 

225 


the  Great  Hall,  Myles,"  said  he;  "it  is  needful  for 
thee  to  make  all  the  haste  that  thou  art  able." 

Perhaps  never  had  Devlen  Castle  seen  a  more 
brilliant  and  goodly  company  gathered  in  the 
great  hall  than  that  which  came  to  witness  King 
Henry  create  Myles  Falworth  a  knight  bachelor. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  was  a  raised  dais, 
upon  which  stood  a  throne  covered  with  crimson 
satin  and  embroidered  with  lions  and  flower- 
deluces;  it  was  the  King's  seat.  He  and  his  personal 
attendants  had  not  yet  come,  but  the  rest  of  the 
company  were  gathered.  The  day  being  warm  and 
sultry,  the  balcony  was  all  aflutter  with  the  feather 
fans  of  the  ladies  of  the  family  and  their  atten- 
dants, who  from  this  high  place  looked  down  upon 
the  hall  below.  Up  the  centre  of  the  hall  was  laid  a 
carpet  of  arras,  and  the  passage  was  protected  by 
wooden  railings.  Upon  the  one  side  were  tiers  of 
seats  for  the  castle  gentlefolks  and  the  guests. 
Upon  the  other  stood  the  burghers  from  the  town, 
clad  in  sober  dun  and  russet,  and  yeomanry  in 
green  and  brown.  The  whole  of  the  great  vaulted 
hall  was  full  of  the  dull  hum  of  many  people  wait- 
ing, and  a  ceaseless  restlessness  stirred  the 
crowded  throng.  But  at  last  a  whisper  went 
around  that  the  King  was  coming.  A  momentary 
hush  fell,  and  through  it  was  heard  the  noisy  clat- 

226 


ter  of  horses'  feet  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
then  stopping  before  the  door.  The  sudden  blare 
of  trumpets  broke  through  the  hush;  another 
pause,  and  then  in  through  the  great  door-way  of 
the  hall  came  the  royal  procession. 

First  of  all  marched,  in  the  order  of  their  rank, 
and  to  the  number  of  a  score  or  more,  certain  gen- 
tlemen, esquires  and  knights,  chosen  mostly  from 
the  King's  attendants.  Behind  these  came  two 
pursuivants-at-arms  in  tabards,  and  following 
them  a  party  of  a  dozen  more  bannerets  and 
barons.  Behind  these  again,  a  little  space  inter- 
vening, came  two  heralds,  also  in  tabards,  a  group 
of  the  greater  nobles  attendant  upon  the  King  fol- 
lowing in  the  order  of  their  rank.  Next  came  the 
King-at-arms  and,  at  a  little  distance  and  walking 
with  sober  slowness,  the  King  himself,  with  the 
Earl  and  the  Count  directly  attendant  upon  him — 
the  one  marching  upon  the  right  hand  and  the 
other  upon  the  left.  A  breathless  silence  filled  the 
whole  space  as  the  royal  procession  advanced 
slowly  up  the  hall.  Through  the  stillness  could  be 
heard  the  muffled  sound  of  the  footsteps  on  the 
carpet,  the  dry  rustling  of  silk  and  satin  garments, 
and  the  clear  clink  and  jingle  of  chains  and  jew- 
elled ornaments,  but  not  the  sound  of  a  single 
voice. 


227 


After  the  moment  or  two  of  bustle  and  confu- 
sion of  the  King  taking  his  place  had  passed,  an- 
other little  space  of  expectant  silence  fell.  At  last 
there  suddenly  came  the  noise  of  acclamation  of 
those  who  stood  without  the  door — cheering  and 
the  clapping  of  hands — sounds  heralding  the  im- 
mediate advent  of  Myles  and  his  attendants.  The 
next  moment  the  little  party  entered  the  hall. 

First  of  all,  Gascoyne,  bearing  Myles's  sword  in 
both  hands,  the  hilt  resting  against  his  breast,  the 
point  elevated  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  It 
was  sheathed  in  a  crimson  scabbard,  and  the  belt 
of  Spanish  leather  studded  with  silver  bosses  was 
wound  crosswise  around  it.  From  the  hilt  of  the 
sword  dangled  the  gilt  spurs  of  his  coming  knight- 
hood. At  a  little  distance  behind  his  squire  fol- 
lowed Myles,  the  centre  of  all  observation.  He  was 
clad  in  a  novitiate  dress,  arranged  under  Lord 
George's  personal  supervision.  It  had  been  made 
somewhat  differently  from  the  fashion  usual  at 
such  times,  and  was  intended  to  indicate  in  a 
manner  the  candidate's  extreme  youthfulness  and 
virginity  in  arms.  The  outer  garment  was  a  tabard 
robe  of  white  wool,  embroidered  at  the  hem  with 
fine  lines  of  silver,  and  gathered  loosely  at  the 
waist  with  a  belt  of  lavender  leather  stitched  with 
thread  of  silver.  Beneath  he  was  clad  in  armor  (a 


228 


present  from  the  Earl),  new  and  polished  till  it 
shone  with  dazzling  brightness,  the  breastplate 
covered  with  a  juppon  of  white  satin,  embroidered 
with  silver.  Behind  Myles,  and  upon  either  hand, 
came  his  squires  of  honor,  sponsors,  and  friends — 
a  little  company  of  some  half-dozen  in  all.  As  they 
advanced  slowly  up  the  great,  dim,  high-vaulted 
room,  the  whole  multitude  broke  forth  into  a 
humming  buzz  of  applause.  Then  a  sudden  clap- 
ping of  hands  began  near  the  door-way,  ran  down 
through  the  length  of  the  room,  and  was  taken  up 
by  all  with  noisy  clatter. 

"Saw  I  never  youth  so  comely,"  whispered  one 
of  the  Lady  Anne's  attendant  gentlewomen.  "Sure 
he  looketh  as  Sir  Galahad  looked  when  he  came 
first  to  King  Arthur's  court." 

Myles  knew  that  he  was  very  pale;  he  felt  rather 
than  saw  the  restless  crowd  of  faces  upon  either 
side,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  directly  before  him, 
upon  the  dais  whereon  sat  the  King,  with  the  Earl 
of  Mackworth  standing  at  his  right  hand,  the 
Comte  de  Vermoise  upon  the  left,  and  the  others 
ranged  around  and  behind  the  throne.  It  was  with 
the  same  tense  feeling  of  dreamy  unreality  that 
Myles  walked  slowly  up  the  length  of  the  hall, 
measuring  his  steps  by  those  of  Gascoyne.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  Lord  George  Beaumont  touch  him 

229 


lightly  upon  the  arm,  and  almost  instinctively  he 
stopped  short — he  was  standing  just  before  the 
covered  steps  of  the  throne. 

He  saw  Gascoyne  mount  to  the  third  step,  stop 
short,  kneel,  and  offer  the  sword  and  the  spurs  he 
carried  to  the  King,  who  took  the  weapon  and  laid 
it  across  his  knees.  Then  the  squire  bowed  low, 
and  walking  backward  withdrew  to  one  side,  leav- 
ing Myles  standing  alone  facing  the  throne.  The 
King  unlocked  the  spur  chains  from  the  sword- 
hilt,  and  then,  holding  the  gilt  spurs  in  his  hand 
for  a  moment,  he  looked  Myles  straight  in  the  eyes 
and  smiled.  Then  he  turned,  and  gave  one  of  the 
spurs  to  the  Earl  of  Mackworth. 

The  Earl  took  it  with  a  low  bow,  turned,  and 
came  slowly  down  the  steps  to  where  Myles  stood. 
Kneeling  upon  one  knee,  and  placing  Myles's  foot 
upon  the  other.  Lord  Mackworth  set  the  spur  in 
its  place  and  latched  the  chain  over  the  instep.  He 
drew  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  Myles's  bended 
knee,  set  the  foot  back  upon  the  ground,  rose  with 
slow  dignity,  and  bowing  to  the  King,  drew  a  little 
to  one  side. 

As  soon  as  the  Earl  had  fulfilled  his  office  the 
King  gave  the  second  spur  to  the  Comte  de  Ver- 
moise,  who  set  it  to  Myles's  other  foot  with  the 
same  ceremony  that  the  Earl  had  observed,  with- 

230 


drawing  as  he  had  done  to  one  side. 

An  instant  pause  of  motionless  silence  followed, 
and  then  the  King  slowly  arose,  and  began  delib- 
erately to  unwind  the  belt  from  around  the  scab- 
bard of  the  sword  he  held.  As  soon  as  he  stood,  the 
Earl  and  the  Count  advanced,  and  taking  Myles 
by  either  hand,  led  him  forward  and  up  the  steps 
of  the  dais  to  the  platform  above.  As  they  drew  a 
little  to  one  side,  the  King  stooped  and  buckled 
the  sword-belt  around  Myles's  waist,  then,  rising 
again,  lifted  his  hand  and  struck  him  upon  the 
shoulder,  crying,  in  a  loud  voice. 

"Be  thou  a  good  knight!" 

Instantly  a  loud  sound  of  applause  and  the 
clapping  of  hands  filled  the  whole  hall,  in  the 
midst  of  which  the  King  laid  both  hands  upon 
Myles's  shoulders  and  kissed  him  upon  the  right 
cheek.  So  the  ceremony  ended;  Myles  was  no 
longer  Myles  Falworth,  but  Sir  Myles  Falworth, 
Knight  by  Order  of  the  Bath  and  by  grace  of  the 
King! 


231 


CHAPTER  25 


H 


T  WAS  the  custom  to  conclude  the  ceremonies 
of  the  bestowal  of  knighthood  by  a  grand  feast 
given  in  honor  of  the  newly-created  knight.  But  in 
Myles's  instance  the  feast  was  dispensed  with.  The 
Earl  of  Mackworth  had  planned  that  Myles  might 
be  created  a  Knight  of  the  Bath  with  all  possible 
pomp  and  ceremony;  that  his  personality  might  be 
most  favorably  impressed  upon  the  King;  that  he 
might  be  so  honorably  knighted  as  to  make  him 
the  peer  of  any  who  wore  spurs  in  all  England; 
and,  finally,  that  he  might  celebrate  his  new  hon- 
ors by  jousting  with  some  knight  of  high  fame  and 
approved  valor.  All  these  desiderata  chance  had 
fulfilled  in  the  visit  of  the  King  to  Devlen. 

As  the  Earl  had  said  to  Myles,  he  would  rather 
have  waited  a  little  while  longer  until  the  lad  was 

232 


riper  in  years  and  experience,  but  the  opportunity 
was  not  to  be  lost.  Young  as  he  was,  Myles  must 
take  his  chances  against  the  years  and  grim  expe- 
rience of  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne.  But  it  was 
also  a  part  of  the  Earl's  purpose  that  the  King  and 
Myles  should  not  be  brought  too  intimately  to- 
gether just  at  that  time.  Though  every  particular 
of  circumstance  should  be  fulfilled  in  the  cere- 
mony, it  would  have  been  ruination  to  the  Earl's 
plans  to  have  the  knowledge  come  prematurely  to 
the  King  that  Myles  was  the  son  of  the  attainted 
Lord  Falworth.  The  Earl  knew  that  Myles  was  a 
shrewd,  coolheaded  lad;  but  the  King  had  already 
hinted  that  the  name  was  familiar  to  his  ears,  and 
a  single  hasty  answer  or  unguarded  speech  upon 
the  young  knight's  part  might  awaken  him  to  a  full 
knowledge.  Such  a  mishap  was,  of  all  things,  to  be 
avoided  just  then,  for,  thanks  to  the  machinations 
of  that  enemy  of  his  father  of  whom  Myles  had 
heard  so  much,  and  was  soon  to  hear  more,  the 
King  had  always  retained  and  still  held  a  bitter 
and  rancorous  enmity  against  the  unfortunate 
nobleman. 

It  was  no  very  diflficult  matter  for  the  Earl  to 
divert  the  King's  attention  from  the  matter  of  the 
feast.  His  Majesty  was  very  intent  just  then  upon 
supplying  a  quota  of  troops  to  the  Dauphin,  and 

233 


the  chief  object  of  his  visit  to  Devlen  was  to  open 
negotiations  with  the  Earl  looking  to  that  end.  He 
was  interested — much  interested  in  Myles  and  in 
the  coming  jousting  in  which  the  young  warrior 
was  to  prove  himself,  but  he  was  interested  in  it 
by  way  of  a  relaxation  from  the  other  and  more 
engrossing  matter.  So,  though  he  made  some  pass- 
ing and  half  preoccupied  inquiry  about  the  feast 
he  was  easily  satisfied  with  the  Earl's  reasons  for 
not  holding  it:  which  were  that  he  had  arranged  a 
consultation  for  that  morning  in  regard  to  the 
troops  for  the  Dauphin,  to  which  meeting  he  had 
summoned  a  number  of  his  own  more  important 
dependent  nobles,  that  the  King  himself  needed 
repose  and  the  hour  or  so  of  rest  that  his  barber- 
surgeon  had  ordered  him  to  take  after  his  mid-day 
meal;  that  Father  Thomas  had  laid  upon  Myles  a 
petty  penance — that  for  the  first  three  days  of  his 
knighthood  he  should  eat  his  meals  without  meat 
and  in  his  own  apartment — and  various  other  rea- 
sons equally  good  and  sufficient.  So  the  King  was 
satisfied,  and  the  feast  was  dispensed  with. 

The  next  morning  had  been  set  for  the  jousting, 
and  all  that  day  the  workmen  were  busy  erecting 
the  lists  in  the  great  quadrangle  upon  which,  as 
was  said  before,  looked  the  main  buildings  of  the 
castle.  The  windows  of  Myles's  apartment  opened 

234 


directly  upon  the  bustling  scene — the  carpenters 
hammering  and  sawing,  the  upholsterers  snipping, 
cutting,  and  tacking.  Myles  and  Gascoyne  stood 
gazing  out  from  the  open  casement,  with  their 
arms  lying  across  one  another's  shoulders  in  the 
old  boyhood  fashion,  and  Myles  felt  his  heart 
shrink  with  a  sudden  tight  pang  as  the  realization 
came  sharply  and  vividly  upon  him  that  all  these 
preparations  were  being  made  for  him,  and  that 
the  next  day  he  should,  with  almost  the  certainty 
of  death,  meet  either  glory  or  failure  under  the 
eyes  not  only  of  all  the  greater  and  lesser  castle 
folk,  but  of  the  King  himself  and  noble  strangers 
critically  used  to  deeds  of  chivalry  and  prowess. 
Perhaps  he  had  never  fully  realized  the  magnitude 
of  the  reality  before.  In  that  tight  pang  at  his  heart 
he  drew  a  deep  breath,  almost  a  sigh.  Gascoyne 
turned  his  head  abruptly,  and  looked  at  his  friend, 
but  he  did  not  ask  the  cause  of  the  sigh.  No  doubt 
the  same  thoughts  that  were  in  Myles's  mind  were 
in  his  also. 

It  was  towards  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon 
that  a  message  came  from  the  Earl,  bidding  Myles 
attend  him  in  his  private  closet.  After  Myles  had 
bowed  and  kissed  his  lordship's  hand,  the  Earl 
motioned  him  to  take  a  seat,  telling  him  that  he 

235 


had  some  final  words  to  say  that  might  occupy  a 
considerable  time.  He  talked  to  the  young  man  for 
about  half  an  hour  in  his  quiet,  measured  voice, 
only  now  and  then  showing  a  little  agitation  by 
rising  and  walking  up  and  down  the  room  for  a 
turn  or  two.  Very  many  things  were  disclosed  in 
that  talk  that  had  caused  Myles  long  hours  of 
brooding  thought,  for  the  Earl  spoke  freely,  and 
without  concealment  to  him  concerning  his  father 
and  the  fortunes  of  the  house  of  Falworth. 

Myles  had  surmised  many  things,  but  it  was  not 
until  then  that  he  knew  for  a  certainty  who  was 
his  father's  malignant  and  powerful  enemy — that 
it  was  the  great  Earl  of  Alban,  the  rival  and  bitter 
enemy  of  the  Earl  of  Mackworth.  It  was  not  until 
then  that  he  knew  that  the  present  Earl  of  Alban 
was  the  Lord  Brookhurst,  who  had  killed  Sir  John 
Dale  in  the  anteroom  at  Falworth  Castle  that 
morning  so  long  ago  in  his  early  childhood.  It  was 
not  until  then  that  he  knew  all  the  circumstances 
of  his  father's  blindness;  that  he  had  been  over- 
thrown in  the  melee  at  the  great  tournament  at 
York,  and  that  that  same  Lord  Brookhurst  had 
ridden  his  iron-shod  war-horse  twice  over  his 
enemy's  prostrate  body  before  his  squire  could 
draw  him  from  the  press,  and  had  then  and  there 
given  him  the  wound  from  which  he  afterwards 

236 


went  blind.  The  Earl  swore  to  Myles  that  Lord 
Brookhurst  had  done  what  he  did  wilfully,  and 
had  afterwards  boasted  of  it.  Then,  with  some  hes- 
itation, he  told  Myles  the  reason  of  Lord  Brook- 
hurst's  enmity,  and  that  it  had  arisen  on  account 
of  Lady  Falworth,  whom  he  had  one  time  sought 
in  marriage,  and  that  he  had  sworn  vengeance 
against  the  man  who  had  won  her. 

Piece  by  piece  the  Earl  of  Mackworth  re- 
counted every  circumstance  and  detail  of  the  re- 
venge that  the  blind  man's  enemy  had  afterwards 
wreaked  upon  him.  He  told  Myles  how,  when  his 
father  was  attainted  of  high-treason,  and  his  es- 
tates forfeited  to  the  crown,  the  King  had  granted 
the  barony  of  Easterbridge  to  the  then  newly- 
created  Earl  of  Alban  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of 
Lord  Falworth's  friends  to  the  contrary;  that  when 
he  himself  had  come  out  from  an  audience  with 
the  King,  with  others  of  his  father's  friends,  the 
Earl  of  Alban  had  boasted  in  the  anteroom,  in  a 
loud  voice,  evidently  intended  for  them  all  to  hear, 
that  now  that  he  had  Falworth's  fat  lands,  he 
would  never  rest  till  he  had  hunted  the  blind  man 
out  from  his  hiding,  and  brought  his  head  to  the 
block. 

"Ever  since  then,"  said  the  Earl  of  Mackworth 
"he  hath  been  striving  by  every  means  to  discover 

237 


thy  father's  place  of  concealment.  Some  time, 
haply,  he  may  find  it,  and  then — " 

Myles  had  felt  for  a  long  time  that  he  was  being 
moulded  and  shaped,  and  that  the  Earl  of  Mack- 
worth's  was  the  hand  that  was  making  him  what 
he  was  growing  to  be;  but  he  had  never  realized 
how  great  were  the  things  expected  of  him  should 
he  pass  the  first  great  test,  and  show  himself  what 
his  friends  hoped  to  see  him.  Now  he  knew  that  all 
were  looking  upon  him  to  act,  sometime,  as  his 
father's  champion,  and  when  that  time  should 
come,  to  challenge  the  Earl  of  Alban  to  the  ordeal 
of  single  combat,  to  purge  his  father's  name  of 
treason,  to  restore  him  to  his  rank,  and  to  set  the 
house  of  Falworth  where  it  stood  before  misfor- 
tune fell  upon  it. 

But  it  was  not  alone  concerning  his  and  his  fa- 
ther's affairs  that  the  Earl  of  Mackworth  talked  to 
Myles.  He  told  him  that  the  Earl  of  Alban  was  the 
Earl  of  Mackworth's  enemy  also;  that  in  his 
younger  days  he  had  helped  Lord  Falworth,  who 
was  his  kinsman,  to  win  his  wife,  and  that  then 
Lord  Brookhurst  had  sworn  to  compass  his  ruin  as 
he  had  sworn  to  compass  the  ruin  of  his  friend.  He 
told  Myles  how,  now  that  Lord  Brookhurst  was 
grown  to  be  Earl  of  Alban,  and  great  and  power- 
ful,   he   was    forever   plotting   against   him,   and 

238 


showed  Myles  how,  if  Lord  Falworth  were  discov- 
ered and  arrested  for  treason,  he  also  would  be 
likely  to  suffer  for  aiding  and  abetting  him.  Then 
it  dawned  upon  Myles  that  the  Earl  looked  to  him 
to  champion  the  house  of  Beaumont  as  well  as 
that  of  Falworth. 

"Mayhap,"  said  the  Earl,  "thou  didst  think  that 
it  was  all  for  the  pleasant  sport  of  the  matter  that  I 
have  taken  upon  me  this  toil  and  endeavor  to  have 
thee  knighted  with  honor  that  thou  mightst  fight 
the  Dauphiny  knight.  Nay,  nay,  Myles  Falworth,  I 
have  not  labored  so  hard  for  such  a  small  matter 
as  that.  I  have  had  the  King,  unknown  to  himself, 
so  knight  thee  that  thou  mayst  be  the  peer  of 
Alban  himself,  and  now  I  would  have  thee  to  hold 
thine  own  with  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne,  to  try 
whether  thou  be'st  Alban's  match,  and  to  approve 
thyself  worthy  of  the  honor  of  thy  knighthood.  I 
am  sorry,  ne'theless,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "that  this  could  not  have  been  put  off  for  a 
while  longer,  for  my  plans  for  bringing  thee  to 
battle  with  that  vile  Alban  are  not  yet  ripe.  But 
such  a  chance  of  the  King  coming  hither  haps  not 
often.  And  then  I  am  glad  of  this  much — that  a 
good  occasion  offers  to  get  thee  presently  away 
from  England.  I  would  have  thee  out  of  the  King's 
sight  so  soon  as  may  be  after  this  jousting.   He 

239 


taketh  a  liking  to  thee,  and  I  fear  me  lest  he 
should  inquire  more  nearly  concerning  thee  and  so 
all  be  discovered  and  spoiled.  My  brother  George 
goeth  upon  the  first  of  next  month  to  France  to 
take  service  with  the  Dauphin,  having  under  his 
command  a  company  of  tenscore  men — knights 
and  archers;  thou  shalt  go  with  him,  and  there 
stay  till  I  send  for  thee  to  return." 

With  this,  the  protracted  interview  concluded, 
the  Earl  charging  Myles  to  say  nothing  further 
about  the  French  expedition  for  the  present — even 
to  his  friend — for  it  was  as  yet  a  matter  of  secrecy, 
known  only  to  the  King  and  a  few  nobles  closely 
concerned  in  the  venture. 

Then  Myles  arose  to  take  his  leave.  He  asked 
and  obtained  permission  for  Gascoyne  to  accom- 
pany him  to  France.  Then  he  paused  for  a  moment 
or  two,  for  it  was  strongly  upon  him  to  speak  of  a 
matter  that  had  been  lying  in  his  mind  all  day — a 
matter  that  he  had  dreamed  of  much  with  open 
eyes  during  the  long  vigil  of  the  night  before. 

The  Earl  looked  up  inquiringly.  "What  is  it 
thou  wouldst  ask?"  said  he. 

Myles's  heart  was  beating  quickly  within  him  at 
the  thought  of  his  own  boldness,  and  as  he  spoke 
his  cheeks  burned  like  fire.  "Sir,"  said  he,  muster- 
ing his  courage  at  last,  "haply  thou  hast  forgot  it, 

240 


but  I  have  not;  ne'theless,  a  long  time  since  when  I 
spK)ke  of  serving  the — the  Lady  Alice  as  her  true 
knight,  thou  didst  wisely  laugh  at  my  words,  and 
bade  me  wait  first  till  I  had  earned  my  spurs.  But 
now,  sir,  I  have  gotten  my  spurs,  and — and  do 
now  crave  thy  gracious  leave  that  I  may  serve  that 
lady  as  her  true  knight." 

A  space  of  dead  silence  fell,  in  which  Myles's 
heart  beat  tumultuously  within  him. 

"I  know  not  what  thou  meanest,"  said  the  Earl 
at  last,  in  a  somewhat  constrained  voice.  "How 
wouldst  thou  serve  her?  What  wouldst  thou 
have?" 

"I  would  have  only  a  little  matter  just  now," 
answered  Myles.  "I  would  but  crave  of  her  a  favor 
for  to  wear  in  the  morrow's  battle,  so  that  she  may 
know  that  I  hold  her  for  my  own  true  lady,  and 
that  I  may  have  the  courage  to  fight  more  boldly, 
having  that  favor  to  defend." 

The  Earl  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  while  in  brood- 
ing silence,  stroking  his  beard  the  while.  Suddenly 
his  brow  cleared.  "So  be  it,"  said  he.  "I  grant  thee 
my  leave  to  ask  the  Lady  Alice  for  a  favor,  and  if 
she  is  pleased  to  give  it  to  thee,  I  shall  not  say  thee 
nay.  But  I  set  this  upon  thee  as  a  provision:  that 
thou  shalt  not  see  her  without  the  Lady  Anne  be 
present.  Thus  it  was,  as  I  remember,  thou  saw  her 

241 


first,  and  with  it  thou  must  now  be  satisfied.  Go 
thou  to  the  Long  Gallery,  and  thither  they  will 
come  anon  if  naught  hinder  them." 

Myles  waited  in  the  Long  Gallery  perhaps  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes.  No  one  was  there  but 
himself.  It  was  a  part  of  the  castle  connecting  the 
Earl's  and  the  Countess's  apartments,  and  was 
used  but  little.  During  that  time  he  stood  looking 
absently  out  of  the  open  casement  into  the  stony 
court-yard  beyond,  trying  to  put  into  words  that 
which  he  had  to  say;  wondering,  with  anxiety, 
how  soon  the  young  ladies  would  come;  wonder- 
ing whether  they  would  come  at  all.  At  last  the 
door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  gallery  opened,  and 
turning  sharply  at  the  sound,  he  saw  the  two 
young  ladies  enter.  Lady  Alice  leaning  upon  Lady 
Anne's  arm.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  seen 
them  since  the  ceremony  of  the  morning,  and  as 
he  advanced  to  meet  them,  the  Lady  Anne  came 
frankly  forward,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  which 
Myles  raised  to  his  lips. 

"I  give  thee  joy  of  thy  knighthood,  Sir  Myles," 
said  she,  "and  do  believe,  in  good  sooth,  that  if  any 
one  deserveth  such  an  honor,  thou  art  he." 

At  first  little  Lady  Alice  hung  back  behind  her 
cousin,  saying  nothing  until  the  Lady  Anne,  turn- 
ing suddenly,  said:  "Come,  coz,  has  thou  naught 

242 


to  say  to  our  new-made  knight?  Canst  thou  not 
also  wish  him  joy  of  his  knighthood?" 

Lady  Alice  hesitated  a  minute,  then  gave  Myles 
a  timid  hand,  which  he,  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
joy  and  confusion,  took  as  timidly  as  it  was 
offered.  He  raised  the  hand,  and  set  it  lightly  and 
for  an  instant  to  his  lips,  as  he  had  done  with  the 
Lady  Anne's  hand,  but  with  very  different  emo- 
tions. 

"I  give  you  joy  of  your  knighthood,  sir,"  said 
Lady  Alice,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  Myles  could 
hardly  hear  it. 

Both  flushed  red,  and  as  he  raised  his  head 
again,  Myles  saw  that  the  Lady  Anne  had  with- 
drawn to  one  side.  Then  he  knew  that  it  was  to 
give  him  the  opportunity  to  proffer  his  request. 

A  little  space  of  silence  followed,  the  while  he 
strove  to  key  his  courage  to  the  saying  of  that 
which  lay  at  his  mind.  "Lady,"  said  he  at  last,  and 
then  again — "Lady,  I — have  a  favor  for  to  ask 
thee." 

"What  is  it  thou  wouldst  have.  Sir  Myles?"  she 
murmured,  in  reply. 

"Lady,"  said  he,  "ever  sin  I  first  saw  thee  I  have 
thought  that  if  I  might  choose  of  all  the  world, 
thou  only  wouldst  I  choose  for — for  my  true  lady, 
to   serve    as    a    right    knight    should."    Here    he 

243 


stopped,  frightened  at  his  own  boldness.  Lady 
Alice  stood  quite  still,  with  her  face  turned  away. 
"Thou — thou  art  not  angered  at  what  I  say?"  he 
said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  longed  and  longed  for  the  time,"  said  he, 
"to  ask  a  boon  of  thee,  and  now  hath  that  time 
come.  Lady,  to-morrow  I  go  to  meet  a  right  good 
knight,  and  one  skilled  in  arms  and  in  jousting,  as 
thou  dost  know.  Yea,  he  is  famous  in  arms,  and  I 
be  nobody.  Ne'theless,  I  fight  for  the  honor  of  En- 
gland and  Mackworth — and — and  for  thy  sake. 
I —  Thou  art  not  angered  at  what  I  say?" 

Again  the  Lady  Alice  shook  her  head. 

"I  would  that  thou — I  would  that  thou  would 
give  me  some  favor  for  to  wear — thy  veil  or  thy 
necklace." 

He  waited  anxiously  for  a  little  while,  but  Lady 
Alice  did  not  answer  immediately. 

"I  fear  me,"  said  Myles,  presently,  "that  I  have 
in  sooth  offended  thee  in  asking  this  thing.  I  know 
that  it  is  a  parlous  bold  matter  for  one  so  raw  in 
chivalry  and  in  courtliness  as  I  am,  and  one  so 
poor  in  rank,  to  ask  thee  for  thy  favor.  An  I  ha' 
offended,  I  prithee  let  it  be  as  though  I  had  not 
asked  it." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  young  man's  timidity  that 

244 


brought  a  sudden  courage  to  Lady  Alice;  perhaps 
it  was  the  graciousness  of  her  gentle  breeding  that 
urged  her  to  relieve  Myles's  somewhat  awkward 
humility,  perhaps  it  was  something  more  than  ei- 
ther that  lent  her  bravery  to  speak,  even  knowing 
that  the  Lady  Anne  heard  all.  She  turned  quickly 
to  him:  "Nay,  Sir  Myles,"  she  said,  "I  am  foolish, 
and  do  wrong  thee  by  my  foolishness  and  silence, 
for,  truly,  I  am  proud  to  have  thee  wear  my  favor." 
She  unclasped,  as  she  spoke,  the  thin  gold  chain 
from  about  her  neck.  "I  give  thee  this  chain,"  said 
she,  "and  it  will  bring  me  joy  to  have  it  honored  by 
thy  true  knightliness,  and,  giving  it,  I  do  wish  thee 
all  success."  Then  she  bowed  her  head,  and,  turn- 
ing, left  him  holding  the  necklace  in  his  hand. 

Her  cousin  left  the  window  to  meet  her,  bowing 
her  head  with  a  smile  to  Myles  as  she  took  her 
cousin's  arm  again  and  led  her  away.  He  stood 
looking  after  them  as  they  left  the  room,  and  when 
they  were  gone,  he  raised  the  necklace  to  his  lips 
with  a  heart  beating  tumultuously  with  a  trium- 
phant joy  it  had  never  felt  before. 


245 


CHAPTER  26 


H 


Ni)  NOW,  at  last,  had  come  the  day  of  days 
for  Myles  Falworth;  the  day  when  he  was  to  put 
to  the  test  all  that  he  had  acquired  in  the  three 
years  of  his  training,  the  day  that  was  to  disclose 
what  promise  of  future  greatness  there  was  in  his 
strong  yoimg  body.  And  it  was  a  noble  day;  one  of 
those  of  late  September,  when  the  air  seems 
sweeter  and  fresher  than  at  other  times;  the  sun 
bright  and  as  yellow  as  gold,  the  wind  lusty  and 
strong,  before  which  the  great  white  clouds  go 
sailing  majestically  across  the  bright  blueness  of 
the  sky  above,  while  their  dusky  shadows  skim 
across  the  brown  face  of  the  rusty  earth  beneath. 

As  was  said  before,  the  lists  had  been  set  up  in 
the  great  quadrangle  of  the  castle,  than  which, 
level  and  smooth  as  a  floor,  no  more  fitting  place 

246 


could  be  chosen.  The  course  was  of  the  usual  size 
— sixty  paces  long — and  separated  along  its  whole 
length  by  a  barrier  about  five  feet  high.  Upon  the 
west  side  of  the  course  and  about  twenty  paces 
distant  from  it,  a  scaffolding  had  been  built  facing 
towards  the  east  so  as  to  avoid  the  glare  of  the 
afternoon  sun.  In  the  centre  was  a  raised  dais, 
hung  round  with  cloth  of  blue  embroidered  with 
lions  rampant.  Upon  the  dais  stood  a  cushioned 
throne  for  the  King,  and  upon  the  steps  below, 
ranged  in  the  order  of  their  dignity,  were  seats  for 
the  Earl,  his  guests,  the  family,  the  ladies,  knights, 
and  gentlemen  of  the  castle.  In  front,  the  scaffold- 
ing was  covered  with  the  gayest  tapestries  and 
brightest-colored  hangings  that  the  castle  could 
afford.  And  above,  parti-colored  pennants  and 
streamers,  surmounted  by  the  royal  ensign  of  En- 
gland, waved  and  fluttered  in  the  brisk  wind. 

At  either  end  of  the  lists  stood  the  pavilions  of 
the  knights.  That  of  Myles  was  at  the  southern 
extremity  and  was  hung,  by  the  Earl's  desire,  with 
cloth  of  the  Beaumont  colors  (black  and  yellow), 
while  a  wooden  shield  bearing  three  goshawks 
spread  (the  crest  of  the  house)  was  nailed  to  the 
roof,  and  a  long  streamer  of  black  and  yellow 
trailed  out  in  the  wind  from  the  staff  above. 
Myles,  partly  armed,  stood  at  the  door-way  of  the 

247 


pavilion,  watching  the  folk  gathering  at  the  scaf- 
folding. The  ladies  of  the  house  were  already 
seated,  and  the  ushers  were  bustling  hither  and 
thither,  assigning  the  others  their  places.  A  con- 
siderable crowd  of  common  folk  and  burghers 
from  the  town  had  already  gathered  at  the  bar- 
riers opposite,  and  as  he  looked  at  the  restless  and 
growing  multitude  he  felt  his  heart  beat  quickly 
and  his  flesh  grow  cold  with  a  nervous  trepidation 
— just  such  as  the  lad  of  to-day  feels  when  he  sees 
the  auditorium  filling  with  friends  and  strangers 
who  are  to  listen  by-and-by  to  the  reading  of  his 
prize  poem. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  loud  blast  of  trumpets.  A 
great  gate  at  the  farther  extremity  of  the  lists  was 
thrown  open,  and  the  King  appeared,  riding  upon 
a  white  horse,  preceded  by  the  King-at-arms  and 
the  heralds,  attended  by  the  Earl  and  the  Comte 
de  Vermoise,  and  followed  by  a  crowd  of  atten- 
dants. Just  then  Gascoyne,  who,  with  Wilkes,  was 
busied  lacing  some  of  the  armor  plates  with  new 
thongs,  called  Myles,  and  he  turned  and  entered 
the  pavilion. 

As  the  two  squires  were  adjusting  these  last 
pieces,  strapping  them  in  place  and  tying  the 
thongs,  Lord  George  and  Sir  James  Lee  entered 
the  pavilion.  Lord  George  took  the  young  man  by 
the  hand,  and  with  a  pleasant  smile  wished  him 

248 


success  in  the  coming  encounter. 

Sir  James  seemed  anxious  and  disturbed.  He 
said  nothing,  and  after  Gascoyne  had  placed  the 
open  bascinet  that  supports  the  tilting  helm  in  its 
place,  he  came  forward  and  examined  the  armor 
piece  by  piece,  carefully  and  critically,  testing  the 
various  straps  and  leather  points  and  thongs  to 
make  sure  of  their  strength. 

"Sir,"  said  Gascoyne,  who  stood  by  watching 
him  anxiously,  "I  do  trust  that  I  have  done  all 
meetly  and  well," 

"I  see  nothing  amiss,  sirrah,"  said  the  old  knight, 
half  grudgingly.  "So  far  as  I  may  know,  he  is  ready 
to  mount." 

Just  then  a  messenger  entered,  saying  that  the 
King  was  seated,  and  Lord  George  bade  Myles 
make  haste  to  meet  the  challenger, 

"Francis,"  said  Myles,  "prithee  give  me  my 
pouch  yonder." 

Gascoyne  handed  him  the  velvet  bag,  and  he 
opened  it,  and  took  out  the  necklace  that  the  Lady 
Alice  had  given  him  the  day  before. 

"Tie  me  this  around  my  arm,"  said  he.  He 
looked  down,  keeping  his  eyes  studiously  fixed  on 
Gascoyne's  fingers,  as  they  twined  the  thin  golden 
chain  around  the  iron  plates  of  his  right  arm, 
knowing  that  Lord  George's  eyes  were  upon  him, 
and  blushing  fiery  red  at  the  knowledge, 

249 


Sir  James  was  at  that  moment  examining  the 
great  tilting  helm,  and  Lord  George  watched  him, 
smiling  amusedly.  "And  hast  thou  then  already 
chosen  thee  a  lady?"  he  said,  presently. 

"Aye,  my  Lord,"  answered  Myles,  simply. 

"Marry,  I  trust  we  be  so  honored  that  she  is  one 
of  our  castle  folk,"  said  the  Earl's  brother. 

For  a  moment  Myles  did  not  reply;  then  he 
looked  up.  "My  Lord,"  said  he,  "the  favor  was 
given  to  me  by  the  Lady  Alice." 

Lord  George  looked  grave  for  the  moment;  then 
he  laughed.  "Marry,  thou  art  a  bold  archer  to 
shoot  for  such  high  game." 

Myles  did  not  answer,  and  at  that  moment  two 
grooms  led  his  horse  up  to  the  door  of  the  pavil- 
ion. Gascoyne  and  Wilkes  helped  him  to  his  sad- 
dle, and  then,  Gascoyne  holding  his  horse  by  the 
bridle-rein,  he  rode  slowly  across  the  lists  to  the 
little  open  space  in  front  of  the  scaffolding  and  the 
King's  seat  just  as  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  ap- 
proached from  the  opposite  direction. 

As  soon  as  the  two  knights  champion  had 
reached  each  his  appointed  station  in  front  of  the 
scaffolding,  the  Marshal  bade  the  speaker  read  the 
challenge,  which,  unrolling  the  parchment,  he 
began  to  do  in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  so  that  all 
might  hear.  It  was  a  quaint  document,  wrapped 
up  in  the  tangled  heraldic  verbiage  of  the  time. 

250 


'My  Lord,"  said  he,  "the  favor  was  given  to  me  by  the  Lady  Alice. 


The  pith  of  the  matter  was  that  the  Sieur  Brian 
Philip  Francis  de  la  Montaigne  proclaimed  before 
all  men  the  greater  chivalry  and  skill  at  arms  of 
the  knights  of  France  and  of  Dauphiny,  and  like- 
wise the  greater  fairness  of  the  ladies  of  France 
and  Dauphiny,  and  would  there  defend  those  say- 
ings with  his  body  without  fear  or  attaint  as  to  the 
truth  of  the  same.  As  soon  as  the  speaker  had 
ended,  the  Marshal  bade  him  call  the  defendant  of 
the  other  side. 

Then  Myles  spoke  his  part,  with  a  voice  trem- 
bling somewhat  with  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment, but  loudly  and  clearly  enough:  "I,  Myles 
Edward  Falworth,  knight,  so  created  by  the  hand 
and  by  the  grace  of  his  Majesty  King  Henry  IV  of 
England,  do  take  upon  me  the  gage  of  this  battle, 
and  will  defend  with  my  body  the  chivalry  of  the 
knights  of  England  and  the  fairness  of  the  ladies 
thereof!" 

Then,  after  the  speaker  ended  his  proclamation 
and  had  retired  to  his  place,  the  ceremony  of 
claiming  and  redeeming  the  helmet,  to  which  all 
young  knights  were  subjected  upon  first  entering 
the  lists,  was  performed. 

One  of  the  heralds  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "L 
Gilles  Hamerton,  herald  to  the  most  noble  Claren- 
cieux  King-at-arms,  do  claim  the  helm  of  Sir  Myles 
Edward   Falworth   by  this  reason,   that   he   hath 

251 


never  yet  entered  joust  or  tourney." 

To  which  Myles  answered,  "I  do  acknowledge 
the  right  of  that  claim,  and  herewith  proffer  thee  in 
ransom  for  the  same  this  purse  of  one  hundred 
marks  in  gold." 

As  he  spoke,  Gascoyne  stepped  forward  and  de- 
livered the  purse,  with  the  money,  to  the  Herald. 
It  was  a  more  than  usually  considerable  ransom, 
and  had  been  made  up  by  the  Earl  and  Lord 
George  that  morning. 

"Right  nobly  hast  thou  redeemed  thy  helm," 
said  the  Herald,  "and  hereafter  be  thou  free  to 
enter  any  jousting  whatsoever,  and  in  whatever 
place." 

So,  all  being  ended,  both  knights  bowed  to  the 
King,  and  then,  escorted  each  by  his  squire,  re- 
turned to  his  pavilion,  saluted  by  the  spectators 
with  a  loud  clapping  of  hands. 

Sir  James  Lee  met  Myles  in  front  of  his  tent. 
Coming  up  to  the  siae  of  the  horse,  the  old  man 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  saddle,  looking  up  into  the 
young  man's  face. 

"Thou  wilt  not  fail  in  this  venture  and  bring 
shame  upon  me?"  said  he. 

"Nay,  my  dear  master,"  said  Myles;  "I  will  do 
my  best." 

"I  doubt  it  not,"  said  the  old  man;  "and  I  be- 
lieve me  thou  wilt  come  off  right  well.  From  what 

252 


he  did  say  this  morning,  methinks  the  Sieur  de  la 
Montaigne  meaneth  only  to  break  three  lances 
with  thee,  and  will  content  himself  therewith, 
without  seeking  to  unhorse  thee.  Ne'theless,  be 
thou  bold  and  watchful,  and  if  thou  find  that  he 
endeavor  to  cast  thee,  do  thy  best  to  unhorse  him. 
Remember  also  those  things  which  I  have  told 
thee  ten  thousand  times  before:  hold  thy  toes  well 
down  and  grip  the  stirrup  hard,  more  especially  at 
the  moment  of  meeting;  bend  thy  body  forward, 
and  keep  thine  elbow  close  to  thy  side.  Bear  thy 
lance  point  one  foot  above  thine  adversary's  helm 
until  within  two  lengths  of  meeting,  and  strike 
thou  in  the  very  middle  of  his  shield.  So,  Myles, 
thou  mayst  hold  thine  own,  and  come  off  with 
glory." 

As  he  ended  speaking  he  drew  back,  and  Gas- 
coyne,  mounting  upon  a  stool,  covered  his  friend's 
head  and  bascinet  with  the  great  jousting  helm, 
making  fast  the  leathern  points  that  held  it  to  the 
iron  collar. 

As  he  was  tying  the  last  thong  a  messenger  came 
from  the  Herald,  saying  that  the  challenger  was 
ready,  and  then  Myles  knew  the  time  had  come, 
and  reaching  down  and  giving  Sir  James  a  grip  of 
the  hand,  he  drew  on  his  gauntlet,  took  the  joust- 
ing lance  that  Wilkes  handed  him,  and  turned  his 
horse's  head  towards  his  end  of  the  lists. 


253 


CHAPTER  27 


m 


s  MYLEs  took  his  place  at  the  south  end  of 
the  lists,  he  found  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  al- 
ready at  his  station.  Through  the  peep-hole  in  the 
face  of  the  huge  helmet,  a  transverse  slit  known 
as  the  occularium,  he  could  see,  like  a  strange  nar- 
row picture,  the  farther  end  of  the  lists,  the  spec- 
tators upon  either  side  moving  and  shifting  with 
ceaseless  restlessness,  and  in  the  centre  of  all,  his 
opponent,  sitting  with  spear  point  directed  up- 
ward, erect,  motionless  as  a  statue  of  iron,  the  sun- 
light gleaming  and  flashing  upon  his  polished 
plates  of  steel,  and  the  trappings  of  his  horse 
swaying  and  fluttering  in  the  rushing  of  the  fresh 
breeze. 

Upon  that  motionless  figure  his  sight  gradually 
centred  with  every  faculty  of  mind  and  soul.  He 

254 


knew  the  next  moment  the  signal  would  be  given 
that  was  to  bring  him  either  glory  or  shame  from 
that  iron  statue.  He  ground  his  teeth  together  with 
stern  resolve  to  do  his  best  in  the  coming  encoun- 
ter, and  murmured  a  brief  prayer  in  the  hallow 
darkness  of  his  huge  helm.  Then  with  a  shake  he 
settled  himself  more  firmly  in  his  saddle,  slowly 
raised  his  spear  point  until  the  shaft  reached  the 
exact  angle,  and  there  suffered  it  to  rest  motion- 
less. There  was  a  moment  of  dead,  tense,  breath- 
less pause,  then  he  rather  felt  than  saw  the  Mar- 
shal raise  his  baton.  He  gathered  himself  together, 
and  the  next  moment  a  bugle  sounded  loud  and 
clear.  In  one  blinding  rush  he  drove  his  spurs  into 
the  sides  of  his  horse,  and  in  instant  answer  felt 
the  noble  steed  spring  forward  with  a  bound. 

Through  all  the  clashing  of  his  armor  reverber- 
ating in  the  hollow  depths  of  his  helmet,  he  saw 
the  mail-clad  figure  from  the  other  end  of  the  lists 
rushing  towards  him,  looming  larger  and  larger  as 
they  came  together.  He  gripped  his  saddle  with  his 
knees,  clutched  the  stirrup  with  the  soles  of  his 
feet,  and  bent  his  body  still  more  forward.  In  the 
instant  of  meeting,  with  almost  the  blindness  of 
instinct,  he  dropped  the  point  of  his  spear  against 
the  single  red  flower-de-luce  in  the  middle  of  the 
on-coming  shield.  There  was  a  thunderous  crash 

255 


that  seemed  to  rack  every  joint,  he  heard  the 
crackle  of  splintered  wood,  he  felt  the  momentary 
trembling  recoil  of  the  horse  beneath  him,  and  in 
the  next  instant  had  passed  by.  As  he  checked  the 
onward  rush  of  his  horse  at  the  far  end  of  the 
course,  he  heard  faintly  in  the  dim  hollow  recess 
of  the  helm  the  loud  shout  and  the  clapping  of 
hands  of  those  who  looked  on,  and  found  himself 
gripping  with  nervous  intensity  the  butt  of  a 
broken  spear,  his  mouth  clammy  with  excitement, 
and  his  heart  thumping  in  his  throat. 

Then  he  realized  that  he  had  met  his  opponent, 
and  had  borne  the  meeting  well.  As  he  turned  his 
horse's  head  towards  his  own  end  of  the  lists,  he 
saw  the  other  trotting  slowly  back  towards  his  sta- 
tion, also  holding  a  broken  spear  shaft  in  his  hand. 

As  he  passed  the  iron  figure  a  voice  issued  from 
the  helmet,  "Well  done,  Sir  Myles,  nobly  done!" 
and  his  heart  bounded  in  answer  to  the  words  of 
praise.  When  he  had  reached  his  own  end  of  the 
lists,  he  flung  away  his  broken  spear,  and  Gas- 
coyne  came  forward  with  another. 

"Oh,  Myles!"  he  said,  with  sob  in  his  voice,  "it 
was  nobly  done.  Never  did  I  see  a  better  ridden 
course  in  all  my  life.  I  did  not  believe  that  thou 
couldst  do  half  so  well.  Oh,  Myles,  prithee  knock 
him  out  of  his  saddle  an  thou  lovest  me!" 


256 


Myles,  in  his  high-keyed  nervousness,  could  not 
forbear  a  short  hysterical  laugh  at  his  friend's 
warmth  of  enthusiasm.  He  took  the  fresh  lance  in 
his  hand,  and  then,  seeing  that  his  opponent  was 
walking  his  horse  slowly  up  and  down  at  his  end  of 
the  lists,  did  the  same  during  the  little  time  of  rest 
before  the  next  encounter. 

When,  in  answer  to  the  command  of  the  Mar- 
shal, he  took  his  place  a  second  time,  he  found 
himself  calmer  and  more  collected  than  before, 
but  every  faculty  no  less  intensely  fixed  than  it 
had  been  at  first.  Once  more  the  Marshal  raised 
his  baton,  once  more  the  horn  sounded,  and  once 
more  the  two  rushed  together  with  the  same 
thunderous  crash,  the  same  splinter  of  broken 
spears,  the  same  momentary  trembling  recoil  of 
the  horse,  and  the  same  onward  rush  past  one  an- 
other. Once  more  the  spectators  applauded  and 
shouted  as  the  two  knights  turned  their  horses  and 
rode  back  towards  their  station. 

This  time  as  they  met  midway  the  Sieur  de  la 
Montaigne  reined  in  his  horse.  "Sir  Myles,"  said 
his  muffled  voice,  "I  swear  to  thee,  by  my  faith,  I 
had  not  thought  to  meet  in  thee  such  an  opponent 
as  thou  dost  prove  thyself  to  be.  I  had  thought  to 
find  in  thee  a  raw  boy,  but  find  instead  a  Paladin. 
Hitherto  I  have  given  thee  grace  as  I  would  give 

257 


grace  to  any  mere  lad,  and  thought  of  nothing  but 
to  give  thee  opportunity  to  break  thy  lance.  Now  I 
shall  do  my  endeavor  to  unhorse  thee  as  I  would 
an  acknowledged  peer  in  arms.  Nevertheless,  on 
account  of  thy  youth,  I  give  thee  this  warning,  so 
that  thou  mayst  hold  thyself  in  readiness." 

"I  give  thee  gramercy  for  thy  courtesy,  my 
Lord,"  answered  Myles,  speaking  in  French;  "and 
I  will  strive  to  encounter  thee  as  best  I  may,  and 
pardon  me  if  I  seem  forward  in  so  saying,  but 
were  I  in  thy  place,  my  Lord,  I  would  change  me 
yon  breast-piece  and  over-girth  of  my  saddle;  they 
are  sprung  in  the  stitches." 

"Nay,"  said  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne,  laugh- 
ing, "breast-piece  and  over-girth  have  carried  me 
through  more  tilts  than  one,  and  shall  through 
this.  An  thou  give  me  a  blow  so  true  as  to  burst 
breast-piece  and  over-girth,  I  will  own  myself 
fairly  conquered  by  thee."  So  saying,  he  saluted 
Myles  with  the  butt  of  the  spear  he  still  held, 
and  passed  by  to  his  end  of  the  lists. 

Myles,  with  Gascoyne  running  beside  him,  rode 
across  to  his  pavilion,  and  called  to  Edmund 
Wilkes  to  bring  him  a  cup  of  spiced  wine.  After 
Gascoyne  had  taken  off  his  helmet,  and  as  he  sat 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  face  Sir  James 
came  up  and  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  gripping  the  hand  he 

258 


held,  "never  could  I  hope  to  be  so  overjoyed  in 
mine  old  age  as  I  am  this  day.  Thou  dost  bring 
honor  to  me,  for  I  tell  thee  truly  thou  dost  ride  like 
a  knight  seasoned  in  twenty  tourneys." 

"It  doth  give  me  tenfold  courage  to  hear  thee  so 
say,  dear  master,"  answered  Myles.  "And  truly," 
he  added,  "I  shall  need  all  my  courage  this  bout, 
for  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  telleth  me  that  he 
will  ride  to  unhorse  me  this  time." 

"Did  he  indeed  so  say?"  said  Sir  James.  "Then 
belike  he  meaneth  to  strike  at  thy  helm.  Thy  best 
chance  is  to  strike  also  at  his.  Doth  thy  hand 
tremble?" 

"Not  now,"  answered  Myles. 

"Then  keep  thy  head  cool  and  thine  eye  true. 
Set  thy  trust  in  God,  and  haply  thou  wilt  come  out 
of  this  bout  honorably  in  spite  of  the  rawness  of 
thy  youth." 

Just  then  Edmund  Wilkes  presented  the  cup  of 
wine  to  Myles,  who  drank  it  off  at  a  draught,  and 
thereupon  Gascoyne  replaced  the  helm  and  tied 
the  thongs. 

The  charge  that  Sir  James  Lee  had  given  to 
Myles  to  strike  at  his  adversary's  helm  was  a  piece 
of  advice  he  probably  would  not  have  given  to  so 
young  a  knight,  excepting  as  a  last  resort.  A  blow 
perfectly  delivered  upon  the  helm  was  of  all  oth- 
ers the  most  difficult  for  the  recipient  to  recover 

259 


from,  but  then  a  blow  upon  the  helm  was  not  one 
time  in  fifty  perfectly  given.  The  huge  cylindrical 
tilting  helm  was  so  constructed  in  front  as  to  slope 
at  an  angle  in  all  directions  to  one  point.  That 
point  was  the  centre  of  a  cross  formed  by  two  iron 
bands  welded  to  the  steel-face  plates  of  the  helm 
where  it  was  weakened  by  the  opening  slit  of  the 
occularium,  or  peephole.  In  the  very  centre  of  this 
cross  was  a  little  flattened  surface  where  the  bands 
were  riveted  together,  and  it  was  upon  that 
minute  point  that  the  blow  must  be  given  to  be 
perfect,  and  that  stroke  Myles  determined  to  at- 
tempt. 

As  he  took  his  station  Edmund  Wilkes  came 
running  across  from  the  pavilion  with  a  lance  that 
Sir  James  had  chosen,  and  Myles,  returning  the 
one  that  Gascoyne  had  just  given  him,  took  it  in 
his  hand.  It  was  of  seasoned  oak,  somewhat 
thicker  than  the  other,  a  tough  weapon,  not  easily 
to  be  broken  even  in  such  an  encounter  as  he  was 
like  to  have.  He  balanced  the  weapon,  and  found 
that  it  fitted  perfectly  to  his  grasp.  As  he  raised 
the  point  to  rest,  his  opponent  took  his  station  at 
the  farther  extremity  of  the  lists,  and  again  there 
was  a  little  space  of  breathless  pause.  Myles  was 
surprised  at  his  own  coolness;  every  nervous 
tremor  was  gone.  Before,  he  had  been  conscious  of 
the  critical  multitude  looking  down  upon  him; 

260 


now  it  was  a  conflict  of  man  to  man,  and  such  a 
conflict  had  no  terrors  for  his  young  heart  of  iron. 

The  spectators  had  somehow  come  to  the 
knowledge  that  this  was  to  be  a  more  serious  en- 
counter than  the  two  which  had  preceded  it,  and  a 
breathless  silence  fell  for  the  moment  or  two  that 
the  knights  stood  in  place. 

Once  more  he  breathed  a  short  prayer,  "Holy 
Mary,  guard  me!" 

Then  again,  for  the  third  time,  the  Marshal 
raised  his  baton,  and  the  horn  sounded,  and  for 
the  third  time  Myles  drove  his  spurs  into  his 
horse's  flanks.  Again  he  saw  the  iron  figure  of  his 
opponent  rushing  nearer,  nearer,  nearer.  He  cen- 
tred, with  a  straining  intensity,  every  faculty  of 
soul,  mind,  and  body  upon  one  point — the  cross  of 
the  occularium,  the  mark  he  was  to  strike.  He 
braced  himself  for  the  tremendous  shock  which  he 
knew  must  meet  him,  and  then  in  a  flash  dropped 
lance  point  straight  and  true.  The  next  instant 
there  was  a  deafening  stunning  crash — a  crash  like 
the  stroke  of  a  thunder-bolt.  There  was  a  dazzling 
blaze  of  blinding  light,  and  a  myriad  sparks 
danced  and  flickered  and  sparkled  before  his  eyes. 
He  felt  his  horse  stagger  under  him  with  the  re- 
coil, and  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  drove  his 
spurs  deep  into  its  sides  with  a  shout.  At  the  same 
moment  there  resounded  in  his  ears  a  crashing  rat- 

261 


tie  and  clatter,  he  knew  not  of  what,  and  then,  as 
his  horse  recovered  and  sprang  forward,  and  as 
the  stunning  bewilderment  passed,  he  found  that 
his  helmet  had  been  struck  off.  He  heard  a  great 
shout  arise  from  all,  and  thought,  with  a  sickening, 
bitter  disappointment,  that  it  was  because  he  had 
lost.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  course  he  turned  his 
horse,  and  then  his  heart  gave  a  leap  and  a  bound 
as  though  it  would  burst,  the  blood  leaped  to  his 
cheeks  tingling,  and  his  bosom  thrilled  with  an 
almost  agonizing  pang  of  triumph,  of  wonder,  of 
amazement. 

There,  in  a  tangle  of  his  horse's  harness  and  of 
embroidered  trappings,  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne 
lay  stretched  upon  the  ground,  with  his  saddle 
near  by,  and  his  riderless  horse  was  trotting  aim- 
lessly about  at  the  farther  end  of  the  lists. 

Myles  saw  the  two  squires  of  the  fallen  knight 
run  across  to  where  their  master  lay,  he  saw  the 
ladies  waving  their  kerchiefs  and  veils,  and  the 
castle  people  swinging  their  hats  and  shouting  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight.  Then  he  rode  slowly  back  to 
where  the  squires  were  now  aiding  the  fallen 
knight  to  arise.  The  senior  squire  drew  his  dagger, 
cut  the  leather  points,  and  drew  off  the  helm,  dis- 
closing the  knight's  face — a  face  white  as  death, 
and  convulsed  with  rage,  mortification,  and  bitter 
humiliation. 


262 


"I  was  not  rightly  unhorsed!"  he  cried,  hoarsely 
and  with  livid  lips,  to  the  Marshal  and  his  atten- 
dants, who  had  ridden  up.  "I  unhelmed  him  fairly 
enough,  but  my  over-girth  and  breast-strap  burst, 
and  my  saddle  slipped.  I  was  not  unhorsed,  I  say, 
and  I  lay  claim  that  I  unhelmed  him." 

"Sir,"  said  the  Marshal  calmly,  and  speaking  in 
French,  "surely  thou  knowest  that  the  loss  of 
helmet  does  not  decide  an  encounter.  I  need  not 
remind  thee,  my  Lord,  that  it  was  so  awarded  by 
John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  when  in  the 
jousting  match  between  Reynand  de  Roye  and 
John  de  Holland,  the  Sieur  Reynand  left  every 
point  of  his  helm  loosened,  so  that  the  helm  was 
beaten  off  at  each  stroke.  If  he  then  was  justified 
in  doing  so  of  his  own  choice,  and  wilfully  suffer- 
ing to  be  unhelmed,  how  then  can  this  knight  be 
accused  of  evil  who  suffered  it  by  chance?" 

"Nevertheless,"  said  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne, 
in  the  same  hoarse,  breathless  voice,  "I  do  affirm, 
and  will  make  my  affirmation  good  with  my  body, 
that  I  fell  only  by  the  breaking  of  my  girth.  Who 
says  otherwise  lies!" 

"It  is  the  truth  he  speaketh,"  said  Myles.  "I  my- 
self saw  the  stitches  were  some  little  what  burst, 
and  warned  him  thereof  before  we  ran  this 
course." 

"Sir,"  said  the  Marshal  to  the  Sieur  de  la  Mon- 


263 


taigne,  "how  can  you  now  complain  of  that  thing 
which  your  own  enemy  advised  you  of  and 
warned  you  against?  Was  it  not  right  knightly  for 
him  so  to  do?" 

The  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  stood  quite  still  for  a 
little  while,  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  his  chief 
squire,  looking  moodily  upon  the  ground;  then, 
without  making  answer,  he  turned,  and  walked 
slowly  away  to  his  pavilion,  still  leaning  on  his 
squire's  shoulder,  whilst  the  other  attendant  fol- 
lowed behind,  bearing  his  shield  and  helmet. 

Gascoyne  had  picked  up  Myles's  fallen  helmet 
as  the  Sieur  de  la  Montaigne  moved  away,  and 
Lord  George  and  Sir  James  Lee  came  walking 
across  the  lists  to  where  Myles  still  sat.  Then,  the 
one  taking  his  horse  by  the  bridle-rein,  and  the 
other  walking  beside  the  saddle,  they  led  him  be- 
fore the  raised  dais  where  the  King  sat. 

Even  the  Comte  de  Vermoise,  mortified  and 
amazed  as  he  must  have  been  at  the  overthrow  of 
his  best  knight,  joined  in  the  praise  and  congratu- 
lation that  poured  upon  the  young  conqueror. 
Myles,  his  heart  swelling  with  a  passion  of  tri- 
umphant delight,  looked  up  and  met  the  gaze  of 
Lady  Alice  fixed  intently  upon  him.  A  red  spot  of 
excitement  still  burned  in  either  cheek,  and  it 
flamed  to  a  rosier  red  as  he  bowed  his  head  to  her 
before  turning  away. 

264 


Gascoyne  had  just  removed  Myles's  breastplate 
and  gorget,  when  Sir  James  Lee  burst  into  the 
pavilion.  All  his  grim  coldness  was  gone,  and  he 
flung  his  arms  around  the  young  man's  neck,  hug- 
ging him  heartily,  and  kissing  him  upon  either 
cheek. 

Ere  he  let  him  go,  "Mine  own  dear  boy,"  he 
said,  holding  him  off  at  arm's-length,  and  winking 
his  one  keen  eye  rapidly,  as  though  to  wink  away  a 
dampness  of  which  he  was  ashamed — "mine  own 
dear  boy,  I  do  tell  thee  truly  this  is  as  sweet  to 
me  as  though  thou  wert  mine  own  son;  sweeter  to 
me  than  when  I  first  broke  mine  own  lance  in  tri- 
umph, and  felt  myself  to  be  a  right  knight." 

"Sir,"  answered  Myles,  "what  thou  sayest  doth 
rejoice  my  very  heart.  Ne'theless,  it  is  but  just  to 
say  that  both  his  breast-piece  and  over-girth  were 
burst  in  the  stitches  before  he  ran  his  course,  for 
so  I  saw  with  mine  own  eyes." 

"Burst  in  the  stitches!"  snorted  Sir  James. 
"Thinkest  thou  he  did  not  know  in  what  condition 
was  his  horse's  gearing?  I  tell  thee  he  went  down 
because  thou  didst  strike  fair  and  true,  and  he  did 
not  so  strike  thee.  Had  he  been  Guy  of  Warwick 
he  had  gone  down  all  the  same  under  such  a 
stroke  and  in  such  case." 


265 


CHAPTER  28 


t 


T  WAS  not  until  more  than  three  weeks  after 
the  King  had  left  Devlen  Castle  that  Lord  George 
and  his  company  of  knights  and  archers  were 
ready  for  the  expedition  to  France.  Two  weeks  of 
that  time  Myles  spent  at  Crosbey-Dale  with  his  fa- 
ther and  mother.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
seen  them  since,  four  years  ago,  he  had  quitted  the 
low,  narrow,  white-walled  farmhouse  for  the  cas- 
tle of  the  great  Earl  of  Mackworth.  He  had  never 
appreciated  before  how  low  and  narrow  and  poor 
the  farm-house  was.  Now,  with  his  eyes  trained  to 
the  bigness  of  Devlen  Castle,  he  looked  around 
him  with  wonder  and  pity  at  his  father's  humble 
surroundings.  He  realized  as  he  never  else  could 
have  realized  how  great  was  the  fall  in  fortune 
that  had  cast  the  house  of  Falworth  down  from  its 


266 


Prior  Edivard  and  Myles  in  the  Priory  Garden. 


rightful  station  to  such  a  level  as  that  upon  which 
it  now  rested.  And  at  the  same  time  that  he  thus 
recognized  how  poor  was  their  lot,  how  dependent 
upon  the  charity  of  others,  he  also  recognized  how 
generous  was  the  friendship  of  Prior  Edward,  who 
perilled  his  own  safety  so  greatly  in  affording  the 
family  of  the  attainted  Lord  an  asylum  in  its  bitter 
hour  of  need  and  peril. 

Myles  paid  many  visits  to  the  gentle  old  priest 
during  those  two  weeks'  visit,  and  had  many  long 
and  serious  talks  with  him.  One  warm  bright  af- 
ternoon, as  he  and  the  old  man  walked  together  in 
the  priory  garden,  after  a  game  or  two  of 
draughts,  the  young  knight  talked  more  freely  and 
openly  of  his  plans,  his  hopes,  his  ambitions,  than 
perhaps  he  had  ever  done.  He  told  the  old  man  all 
that  the  Earl  had  disclosed  to  him  concerning  the 
fallen  fortunes  of  his  father's  house,  and  of  how  all 
who  knew  those  circumstances  looked  to  him  to 
set  the  family  in  its  old  place  once  more.  Prior  Ed- 
ward added  many  things  to  those  which  Myles  al- 
ready knew — things  of  which  the  Earl  either  did 
not  know,  or  did  not  choose  to  speak.  He  told  the 
young  man,  among  other  matters,  the  reason  of 
the  bitter  and  lasting  enmity  that  the  King  felt  for 
the  blind  nobleman:  that  Lord  Falworth  had  been 
one  of  King  Richard's  council  in  times  past;  that  it 

267 


was  not  a  little  owing  to  him  that  King  Henry, 
when  Earl  of  Derby,  had  been  banished  from  En- 
gland, and  that  though  he  was  then  living  in  the 
retirement  of  private  life,  he  bitterly  and  stead- 
fastly opposed  King  Richard's  abdication.  He 
told  Myles  that  at  the  time  when  Sir  John  Dale 
found  shelter  at  Falworth  Castle,  vengeance  was 
ready  to  fall  upon  his  father  at  any  moment,  and  it 
needed  only  such  a  pretext  as  that  of  sheltering  so 
prominent  a  conspirator  as  Sir  John  to  complete 
his  ruin. 

Myles,  as  he  listened  intently,  could  not  but 
confess  in  his  own  mind  that  the  King  had  many 
rational,  perhaps  just,  grounds  for  grievance 
against  such  an  ardent  opponent  as  the  blind  Lord 
had  shown  himself  to  be.  "But,  sir,"  said  he,  after  a 
little  space  of  silence,  when  Prior  Edward  had 
ended,  "to  hold  enmity  and  to  breed  treason  are 
very  different  matters.  Haply  my  father  was  Bol- 
ingbroke's  enemy,  but,  sure,  thou  dost  not  believe 
he  is  justly  and  rightfully  tainted  with  treason?" 

"Nay,"  answered  the  priest,  "how  canst  thou  ask 
me  such  a  thing?  Did  I  believe  thy  father  a  traitor, 
thinkest  thou  I  would  thus  tell  his  son  thereof? 
Nay,  Myles,  I  do  know  thy  father  well,  and  have 
known  him  for  many  years,  and  this  of  him,  that 
few  men  are  so  honorable  in  heart  and  soul  as  he. 


268 


But  I  have  told  thee  all  these  things  to  show  that 
the  King  is  not  without  some  reason  to  be  thy  fa- 
ther's unfriend.  Neither,  haply,  is  the  Earl  of 
Alban  without  cause  of  enmity  against  him.  So 
thou,  upon  thy  part,  shouldst  not  feel  bitter  rancor 
against  the  King  for  what  hath  happed  to  thy 
house,  nor  even  against  William  Brookhurst — I 
mean  the  Earl  of  Alban — for,  I  tell  thee,  the  worst 
of  our  enemies  and  the  worst  of  men  believe  them- 
selves always  to  have  right  and  justice  upon  their 
side,  even  when  they  most  wish  evil  to  others." 

So  spoke  the  gentle  old  priest,  who  looked  from 
his  peaceful  haven  with  dreamy  eyes  upon  the 
sweat  and  tussle  of  the  world's  battle.  Had  he  in- 
stead been  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  it  might  have 
been  harder  for  him  to  believe  that  his  enemies 
ever  had  right  upon  their  side. 

"But  tell  me  this,"  said  Myles,  presently,  "dost 
thou,  then,  think  that  I  do  evil  in  seeking  to  do  a 
battle  of  life  or  death  with  this  wicked  Earl  of 
Alban,  who  hath  so  ruined  my  father  in  body  and 
fortune?" 

"Nay,"  said  Prior  Edward,  thoughtfully,  "I  say 
not  that  thou  doest  evil.  War  and  bloodshed  seem 
hard  and  cruel  matters  to  me;  but  God  hath  given 
that  they  be  in  the  world,  and  may  He  forbid  that 
such  a  poor  worm  as  I  should  say  that  they  be 

269 


all  wrong  and  evil.  Meseems  even  an  evil  thing  is 
sometimes  passing  good  when  rightfully  used." 

Myles  did  not  fully  understand  what  the  old 
man  meant,  but  this  much  he  gathered,  that  his 
spiritual  father  did  not  think  ill  of  his  fighting  the 
Earl  of  Alban  for  his  temporal  father's  sake. 

So  Myles  went  to  France  in  Lord  George's  com- 
pany, a  soldier  of  fortune,  as  his  Captain  was.  He 
was  there  for  only  six  months,  but  those  six 
months  wrought  a  great  change  in  his  life.  In  the 
fierce  factional  battles  that  raged  around  the  walls 
of  Paris;  in  the  evil  life  which  he  saw  at  the  Bur- 
gundian  court  in  Paris  itself  after  the  truce — a 
court  brilliant  and  wicked,  witty  and  cruel — the 
wonderful  liquor  of  youth  had  evaporated  rapidly, 
and  his  character  had  crystallized  as  rapidly  into 
the  hardness  of  manhood.  The  warfare,  the 
blood,  the  evil  pleasures  which  he  had  seen  had 
been  a  fiery,  crucible  test  to  his  soul,  and  I  love  my 
hero  that  he  should  have  come  forth  from  it  so 
well.  He  was  no  longer  the  innocent  Sir  Galahad 
who  had  walked  in  pure  white  up  the  Long  Hall 
to  be  knighted  by  the  King,  but  his  soul  was  of 
that  grim,  sterling,  rugged  sort  that  looked  out 
calmly  from  his  gray  eyes  upon  the  wickedness 
and  debauchery  around  him,  and  loved  it  not. 

Then  one  day  a  courier  came,  bringing  a  packet. 

270 


It  was  a  letter  from  the  Earl,  bidding  Myles  return 
straightway  to  England  and  to  Mackworth  House 
upon  the  Strand,  nigh  to  London,  without  delay, 
and  Myles  knew  that  his  time  had  come. 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  April  when  he  and  Gas- 
coyne  rode  clattering  out  through  Temple  Bar, 
leaving  behind  them  quaint  old  London  town,  its 
blank  stone  wall,  its  crooked,  dirty  streets,  its  high- 
gabled  wooden  houses,  over  which  rose  the  sharp 
spire  of  St.  Paul's,  towering  high  into  the  golden 
air.  Before  them  stretched  the  straight,  broad 
highway  of  the  Strand,  on  one  side  the  great 
houses  and  palaces  of  princely  priests  and  pow- 
erful nobles;  on  the  other  the  Covent  Garden,  (or 
the  Convent  Garden,  as  it  was  then  called),  and 
the  rolling  country,  where  great  stone  windmills 
swung  their  slow-moving  arms  in  the  damp,  soft 
April  breeze,  and  away  in  the  distance  the  Scottish 
Palace,  the  White  Hall,  and  Westminster. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Myles  had  seen  famous 
London  town.  In  that  dim  and  distant  time  of  his 
boyhood,  six  months  before,  he  would  have  been 
wild  with  delight  and  enthusiasm.  Now  he  jogged 
along  with  Gascoyne,  gazing  about  him  with  calm 
interest  at  open  shops  and  booths  and  tall,  gabled 
houses;  at  the  busy  throng  of  merchants  and 
craftsmen,  jostling  and  elbowing  one  another;  at 


271 


townsfolk — men  and  dames — picking  their  way 
along  the  muddy  kennel  of  a  sidewalk.  He  had 
seen  so  much  of  the  world  that  he  had  lost  some- 
what of  interest  in  new  things.  So  he  did  not  care 
to  tarry,  but  rode,  with  a  mind  heavy  with  graver 
matters,  through  the  streets  and  out  through  the 
Temple  Bar  direct  for  Mackworth  House,  near  the 
Savoy  Palace. 

It  was  with  a  great  deal  of  interest  that  Myles 
and  his  patron  regarded  one  another  when  they 
met  for  the  first  time  after  that  half-year  which  the 
young  soldier  had  spent  in  France.  To  Myles  it 
seemed  somehow  very  strange  that  his  Lordship's 
familiar  face  and  figure  should  look  so  exactly  the 
same.  To  Lord  Mackworth,  perhaps,  it  seemed 
even  more  strange  that  six  short  months  should 
have  wrought  so  great  a  change  in  the  young  man. 
The  rugged  exposure  in  camp  and  field  during  the 
hard  winter  that  had  passed  had  roughened  the 
smooth  bloom  of  his  boyish  complexion  and 
bronzed  his  fair  skin  almost  as  much  as  a  mid- 
summer's sun  could  have  done.  His  beard  and 
mustache  had  grown  again,  (now  heavier  and 
more  mannish  from  having  been  shaved),  and  the 
white  seam  of  a  scar  over  the  right  temple  gave,  if 
not  a  stern,  at  least  a  determined  look  to  the 
strong,  square-jawed  young  face.  So  the  two  stood 

272 


for  a  while  regarding  one  another.  Myles  was  the 
first  to  break  the  silence. 

"My  Lord,"  said  he,  "thou  didst  send  for  me  to 
come  back  to  England;  behold,  here  am  I." 

"When  didst  thou  land,  Sir  Myles?"  said  the 
Earl. 

"I  and  my  squire  landed  at  Dover  upon  Tuesday 
last,"  answered  the  young  man. 

The  Earl  of  Mackworth  stroked  his  beard  softly. 
"Thou  art  marvellous  changed,"  said  he.  "I  would 
not  have  thought  it  possible." 

Myles  smiled  somewhat  grimly.  "I  have  seen 
such  things,  my  Lord,  in  France  and  in  Paris,"  said 
he,  quietly,  "as,  mayhap,  may  make  a  lad  a  man 
before  his  time." 

"From  which  I  gather,"  said  the  Earl,  "that 
many  adventures  have  befallen  thee.  Methought 
thou  wouldst  find  troublesome  times  in  the  Dau- 
phin's camp,  else  I  would  not  have  sent  thee  to 
France." 

A  little  space  of  silence  followed,  during  which 
the  Earl  sat  musingly,  half  absently,  regarding  the 
tall,  erect,  powerful  young  figure  standing  before 
him,  awaiting  his  pleasure  in  motionless,  patient, 
almost  dogged  silence.  The  strong,  sinewy  hands 
were  clasped  and  rested  upon  the  long  heavy 
sword,  around  the  scabbard  of  which  the  belt  was 


273 


loosely  wrapped,  and  the  plates  of  mail  caught 
and  reflected  in  flashing,  broken  pieces,  the  bright 
sunlight  from  the  window  behind. 

"Sir  Myles,"  said  the  Earl,  suddenly,  breaking 
the  silence  at  last,  "dost  thou  know  why  I  sent  for 
thee  hither?" 

"Aye,"  said  Myles,  calmly,  "how  can  I  else? 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  called  me  from  Paris  but 
for  one  thing.  Methinks  thou  hast  sent  for  me  to 
fight  the  Earl  of  Alban,  and  lo!  I  am  here." 

"Thou  speakest  very  boldly,"  said  the  Earl.  "I 
do  hope  that  thy  deeds  be  as  bold  as  thy  words." 

"That,"  said  Myles,  "thou  must  ask  other  men. 
Methinks  no  one  may  justly  call  me  coward." 

"By  my  troth!"  said  the  Earl,  smiling,  "looking 
upon  thee — limbs  and  girth,  bone  and  sinew — I 
would  not  like  to  be  the  he  that  would  dare  accuse 
thee  of  such  a  thing.  As  for  thy  surmise,  I  may  tell 
thee  plain  that  thou  art  right,  and  that  it  was  to 
fight  the  Earl  of  Alban  I  sent  for  thee  hither.  The 
time  is  now  nearly  ripe,  and  I  will  straightway 
send  for  thy  father  to  come  to  London.  Meantime 
it  would  not  be  safe  either  for  thee  or  for  me  to 
keep  thee  in  my  service.  I  have  spoken  to  his 
Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who,  with  other  of 
the  Princes,  is  upon  our  side  in  this  quarrel.  He 
hath  promised  to  take  thee  into  his  service  until 

274 


the  fitting  time  comes  to  bring  thee  and  thine 
enemy  together,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  take  thee 
to  Scotland  Yard,  where  his  Highness  is  now 
lodging." 

As  the  Earl  ended  his  speech,  Myles  bowed,  but 
did  not  speak.  The  Earl  waited  for  a  little  while,  as 
though  to  give  him  the  opportunity  to  answer. 

"Well,  sirrah,"  said  he  at  last,  with  a  shade  of 
impatience,  "hast  thou  naught  to  say?  Meseems 
thou  takest  all  this  with  marvellous  coolness." 

"Have  I  then  my  Lord's  permission  to  speak  my 
mind?" 

"Aye,"  said  the  Earl,  "say  thy  say." 

"Sir,"  said  Myles,  "I  have  thought  and  pondered 
this  matter  much  while  abroad,  and  would  now 
ask  thee  a  plain  question  in  all  honest  an  I  ha'  thy 
leave." 

The  Earl  nodded  his  head. 

"Sir,  am  I  not  right  in  believing  that  thou  hast 
certain  weighty  purposes  and  aims  of  thine  own  to 
gain  an  I  win  this  battle  against  the  Earl  of 
Alban?" 

"Has  my  brother  George  been  telling  thee  aught 
to  such  a  purpose?"  said  the  Earl,  after  a  moment 
or  two  of  silence. 

Myles  did  not  answer. 

"No  matter,"  added  Lord  Mackworth.  "I  will 


275 


not  ask  thee  who  told  thee  such  a  thing.  As  for  thy 
question — well,  sin  thou  ask  it  frankly,  I  will  be 
frank  with  thee.  Yea,  I  have  certain  ends  to  gain  in 
having  the  Earl  of  Alban  overthrown." 

Myles  bowed,  "Sir,"  said  he,  "haply  thine  ends 
are  as  much  beyond  aught  that  I  can  comprehend 
as  though  I  were  a  little  child;  only  this  I  know, 
that  they  must  be  very  great.  Thou  knowest  well 
that  in  any  case  I  would  fight  me  this  battle  for  my 
father's  sake  and  for  the  honor  of  my  house;  never- 
theless, in  return  for  all  that  it  will  so  greatly  ad- 
vantage thee,  wilt  thou  not  grant  me  a  boon  in 
return  should  I  overcome  mine  enemy?" 

"What  is  thy  boon.  Sir  Myles?" 

"That  thou  wilt  grant  me  thy  favor  to  seek  the 
Lady  Alice  de  Mowbray  for  my  wife." 

The  Earl  of  Mackworth  started  up  from  his  seat. 
"Sir  Myles  Falworth" — he  began,  violently,  and 
then  stopped  short,  drawing  his  bushy  eyebrows 
together  into  a  frown,  stern,  if  not  sinister. 

Myles  withstood  his  look  calmly  and  impas- 
sively, and  presently  the  Earl  turned  on  his  heel, 
and  strode  to  the  open  window.  A  long  time 
passed  in  silence  while  he  stood  there,  gazing  out 
of  the  window  into  the  garden  beyond  with  his 
back  to  the  young  man. 

Suddenly  he  swung  around  again.  "Sir  Myles," 


276 


said  he,  "the  family  of  Fal worth  is  as  good  as  any 
in  Derbyshire.  Just  now  it  is  poor  and  fallen  in 
estate,  but  if  it  is  again  placed  in  credit  and  honor, 
thou,  who  art  the  son  of  the  house,  shalt  have  thy 
suit  weighed  with  as  much  respect  and  considera- 
tion as  though  thou  wert  my  peer  in  all  things. 
Such  is  my  answer.  Art  thou  satisfied?" 
"I  could  ask  no  more,"  answered  Myles. 


277 


CHAPTER  29 


XL 


HAT  NIGHT  Mylcs  lodgcd  at  Mackworth 
House.  The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  had 
broken  his  fast,  which  he  did  in  the  privacy  of  his 
own  apartments,  the  Earl  bade  him  and  Gascoyne 
to  make  ready  for  the  barge,  which  was  then  wait- 
ing at  the  river  stairs  to  take  them  to  Scotland 
Yard. 

The  Earl  himself  accompanied  them,  and  as  the 
heavy  snub-nosed  boat,  rowed  by  the  six  oarsmen 
in  Mackworth  livery,  slid  slowly  and  heavily  up 
against  the  stream,  the  Earl,  leaning  back  in  his 
cushioned  seat,  pointed  out  the  various  inns  of 
the  great  priests  or  nobles;  palatial  town  resi- 
dences standing  mostly  a  little  distance  back  from 
the  water  behind  terraced  high-walled  gardens 
and  lawns.  Yon  was  the  Bishop  of  Exeter's  Close; 

278 


yon  was  the  Bishop  of  Bath's;  that  was  York 
House;  and  that  Chester  Inn.  So  passing  by  gar- 
dens and  lawns  and  palaces,  they  came  at  last  to 
Scotland  Yard  stairs,  a  broad  flight  of  marble  steps 
that  led  upward  to  a  stone  platform  above,  upon 
which  opened  the  gate-way  of  the  garden  beyond. 

The  Scotland  Yard  of  Myles  Falworth's  day  was 
one  of  the  more  pretentious  and  commodious  of 
the  palaces  of  the  Strand.  It  took  its  name  from 
having  been  from  ancient  times  the  London  inn 
which  the  tributary  Kings  of  Scotland  occupied 
when  on  their  periodical  visits  of  homage  to  En- 
gland. Now,  during  this  time  of  Scotland's  inde- 
pendence, the  Prince  of  Wales  had  taken  up  his 
lodging  in  the  old  palace,  and  made  it  noisy  with 
the  mad,  boisterous  mirth  of  his  court. 

As  the  watermen  drew  the  barge  close  to  the 
landing-place  of  the  stairs,  the  Earl  stepped  ashore, 
and  followed  by  Myles  and  Gascoyne,  ascended  to 
the  broad  gate-way  of  the  river  wall  of  the  garden. 
Three  men-at-arms  who  lounged  upon  a  bench 
under  the  shade  of  the  little  pent  roof  of  a  guard- 
house beside  the  wall,  arose  and  saluted  as  the 
well-known  figure  of  the  Earl  mounted  the  steps. 
The  Earl  nodded  a  cool  answer,  and  passing  un- 
challenged through  the  gate,  led  the  way  up  a 
pleached  walk,  beyond  which,  as  Myles  could  see, 

279 


there  stretched  a  little  grassy  lawn  and  a  stone- 
paved  terrace.  As  the  Earl  and  the  two  young  men 
approached  the  end  of  the  walk,  they  were  met  by 
the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter,  the  clinking  of 
glasses  and  the  rattle  of  dishes.  Turning  a  corner, 
they  came  suddenly  upon  a  party  of  young  gen- 
tlemen, who  sat  at  a  late  breakfast  under  the 
shade  of  a  wide-spreading  lime-tree.  They  had 
evidently  just  left  the  tilt-yard,  for  two  of  the 
guests — sturdy,  thick-set  young  knights — yet  wore 
a  part  of  their  tilting  armor. 

Behind  the  merry  scene  stood  the  gray,  hoary 
old  palace,  a  steep  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  a  long, 
open,  stone-arched  gallery,  which  evidently  led  to 
the  kitchen  beyond,  for  along  it  hurried  serving- 
men,  running  up  and  down  the  tall  flight  of  steps, 
and  bearing  trays  and  dishes  and  cups  and  flagons. 
It  was  a  merry  sight  and  a  pleasant  one.  The  day 
was  warm  and  balmy,  and  the  yellow  sunlight  fell 
in  waving  uncertain  patches  of  light,  dappling  the 
table-cloth,  and  twinkling  and  sparkling  upon  the 
dishes,  cups,  and  flagons. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  a  young  man  some 
three  or  four  years  older  than  Myles,  dressed  in  a 
full  suit  of  rich  blue  brocaded  velvet,  embroidered 
with  gold-thread  and  trimmed  with  black  fur.  His 
face,   which   was    turned    towards   them   as    they 


280 


mounted  from  the  lawn  to  the  little  stone-flagged 
terrace,  was  frank  and  open;  the  cheeks  smooth 
and  fair;  the  eyes  dark  and  blue.  He  was  tall  and 
rather  slight,  and  wore  his  thick  yellow  hair  hang- 
ing to  his  shoulders,  where  it  was  cut  square 
across,  after  the  manner  of  the  times.  Myles  did 
not  need  to  be  told  that  it  was  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

"Ho,  Gaffer  Fox!"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  Earl  of  Mackworth,  "what  wind  blows 
thee  hither  among  us  wild  mallard  drakes?  I  war- 
rant it  is  not  for  love  of  us,  but  only  to  fill  thine 
own  larder  after  the  manner  of  Sir  Fox  among  the 
drakes.  Whom  hast  thou  with  thee?  Some  gosling 
thou  art  about  to  pluck?" 

A  sudden  hush  fell  upon  the  company,  and  all 
faces  were  turned  towards  the  visitors. 

The  Earl  bowed  with  a  soft  smile.  "Your  High- 
ness," said  he,  smoothly,  "is  pleased  to  be  pleasant. 
Sir,  I  bring  you  the  young  knight  of  whom  I  spoke 
to  you  some  time  since — Sir  Myles  Falworth.  You 
may  be  pleased  to  bring  to  mind  that  you  so  con- 
descended as  to  promise  to  take  him  into  your 
train  until  the  fitting  time  arrived  for  that  certain 
matter  of  which  we  spoke." 

"Sir  Myles,"  said  the  Prince  of  Wales,  with  a 
frank,  pleasant  smile,  "I  have  heard  great  reports 
of  thy  skill  and  prowess   in   France,   both   from 

281 


Mackworth  and  from  others.  It  will  pleasure  me 
greatly  to  have  thee  in  my  household;  more  espe- 
cially," he  added,  "as  it  will  get  thee,  callow  as 
thou  art,  out  of  my  Lord  Fox's  clutches.  Our  fac- 
tion cannot  do  without  the  Earl  of  Mackworth's 
cunning  wits,  Sir  Myles;  ne'theless  I  would  not 
like  to  put  all  my  fate  and  fortune  into  his  hands 
without  bond.  I  hope  that  thou  dost  not  rest  thy 
fortunes  entirely  upon  his  aid  and  countenance." 

All  who  were  present  felt  the  discomfort  of  the 
Prince's  speech.  It  was  evident  that  one  of  his 
mad,  wild  humors  was  upon  him.  In  another  case 
the  hare-brained  young  courtiers  around  might 
have  taken  their  cue  from  him,  but  the  Earl  of 
Mackworth  was  no  subject  for  their  gibes  and  wit- 
ticisms. A  constrained  silence  fell,  in  which  the 
Earl  alone  maintained  a  perfect  ease  of  manner. 

Myles  bowed  to  hide  his  own  embarrassment. 
"Your  Highness,"  said  he,  evasively,  "I  rest  my  for- 
tune, first  of  all,  upon  God,  His  strength  and  jus- 
tice." 

"Thou  wilt  find  safer  dependence  there  than 
upon  the  Lord  of  Mackworth,"  said  the  Prince, 
dryly.  "But  come,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  voice  and  manner,  "these  be  jests  that 
border  too  closely  upon  bitter  earnest  for  a  merry 
breakfast.  It  is  ill  to  idle  with  edged  tools.  Wilt 


282 


thou  not  stay  and  break  thy  fast  with  us,  my 
Lord?" 

"Pardon  me,  your  Highness,"  said  the  Earl,  bow- 
ing, and  smiling  the  same  smooth  smile  his  lips 
had  worn  from  the  first — such  a  smile  as  Myles 
had  never  thought  to  have  seen  upon  his  haughty 
face;  "I  crave  your  good  leave  to  decline.  I  must 
return  home  presently,  for  even  now,  haply,  your 
uncle,  his  Grace  of  Winchester,  is  awaiting  my 
coming  upon  the  business  you  wot  of.  Haply  your 
Highness  will  find  more  joyance  in  a  lusty  young 
knight  like  Sir  Myles  than  in  an  old  fox  like  my- 
self. So  I  leave  him  with  you,  in  your  good  care." 

Such  was  Myles's  introduction  to  the  wild 
young  madcap  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards  the 
famous  Henry  V,  the  conqueror  of  France. 

For  a  month  or  more  thereafter  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  princely  household,  and,  after  a  little 
while,  a  trusted  and  honored  member.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  calm  sturdy  strength,  the  courage  of  the 
young  knight,  that  first  appealed  to  the  Prince's 
royal  heart;  perhaps  afterwards  it  was  the  more 
sterling  qualities  that  underlaid  that  courage  that 
drew  him  to  the  young  man;  certain  it  was  that  in 
two  weeks  Myles  was  the  acknowledged  favorite. 
He  made  no  protestation  of  virtue;  he  always  ac- 
companied the  Prince  in  those  madcap  ventures  to 

283 


London,  where  he  beheld  all  manner  of  wild 
revelry;  he  never  held  himself  aloof  from  his  gay 
comrades,  but  he  looked  upon  all  their  mad  sports 
with  the  same  calm  gaze  that  had  carried  him  with- 
out taint  through  the  courts  of  Burgundy  and  the 
Dauphin.  The  gay,  roistering  young  lords  and  gen- 
tlemen dubbed  him  Saint  Myles,  and  jested  with 
him  about  hair-cloth  shirts  and  flagellations,  but 
witticism  and  jest  alike  failed  to  move  Myles's  pa- 
tient virtue;  he  went  his  own  gait  in  the  habits  of 
his  life,  and  in  so  going  knew  as  little  as  the  others 
of  the  mad  court  that  the  Prince's  growing  liking 
for  him  was,  perhaps,  more  than  all  else,  on  ac- 
count of  that  very  temperance. 

Then,  by-and-by,  the  Prince  began  to  confide  in 
him  as  he  did  in  none  of  the  others.  There  was  no 
great  love  betwixt  the  King  and  his  son;  it  has 
happened  very  often  that  the  Kings  of  England 
have  felt  bitter  jealousy  towards  the  heirs-appar- 
ent as  they  have  grown  in  power,  and  such  was 
the  case  with  the  great  King  Henry  IV.  The 
Prince  often  spoke  to  Myles  of  the  clashing  and 
jarring  between  himself  and  his  father,  and  the 
thought  began  to  come  to  Myles's  mind  by  degrees 
that  maybe  the  King's  jealousy  accounted  not  a 
little  for  the  Prince's  reckless  intemperance. 

Once,  for  instance,  as  the  Prince  leaned  upon 
his  shoulder  waiting,  whilst  the  attendants  made 


284 


ready  the  barge  that  was  to  carry  them  down  the 
river  to  the  city,  he  said,  abruptly:  "Myles,  what 
thinkest  thou  of  us  all?  Doth  not  thy  honesty  hold 
us  in  contempt?" 

"Nay,  Highness,"  said  Myles.  "How  could  I 
hold  contempt?" 

"Marry,"  said  the  Prince,  "I  myself  hold  con- 
tempt, and  am  not  as  honest  a  man  as  thou.  But, 
prithee,  have  patience  with  me,  Myles.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  I  too  will  live  a  clean  life.  Now,  an  I  live 
seriously,  the  King  will  be  more  jealous  of  me  than 
ever,  and  that  is  not  a  little.  Maybe  I  live  thus  so 
that  he  may  not  know  what  I  really  am  in  soothly 
earnest." 

The  Prince  also  often  talked  to  Myles  concern- 
ing his  own  affairs;  of  the  battle  he  was  to  fight  for 
his  father's  honor,  of  how  the  Earl  of  Mackworth 
had  plotted  and  planned  to  bring  him  face  to  face 
with  the  Earl  of  Alban.  He  spoke  to  Myles  more 
than  once  of  the  many  great  changes  of  state  and 
party  that  hung  upon  the  downfall  of  the  enemy 
of  the  house  of  Falworth,  and  showed  him  how  no 
hand  but  his  own  could  strike  that  enemy  down;  if 
he  fell,  it  must  be  through  the  son  of  Falworth. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  Myles  as  though  he  and 
his  blind  father  were  the  centre  of  a  great  web 
of  plot  and  intrigue,  stretching  far  and  wide,  that 
included  not  only  the  greatest  houses  of  England, 

285 


but  royalty  and  the  political  balance  of  the  coun- 
try as  well,  and  even  before  the  greatness  of  it  all 
he  did  not  flinch. 

Then,  at  last,  came  the  beginning  of  the  time  for 
action.  It  was  in  the  early  part  of  May,  and  Myles 
had  been  a  member  of  the  Prince's  household  for  a 
little  over  a  month.  One  morning  he  was  ordered 
to  attend  the  Prince  in  his  privy  cabinet,  and, 
obeying  the  summons,  he  found  the  Prince,  his 
younger  brother,  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  and  his 
uncle,  the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  seated  at  a  table, 
where  they  had  just  been  refreshing  themselves 
with  a  flagon  of  wine  and  a  plate  of  wafers. 

"My  poor  Myles,"  said  the  Prince,  smiling,  as 
the  young  knight  bowed  to  the  three,  and  then 
stood  erect,  as  though  on  duty.  "It  shames  my 
heart,  brother — and  thou,  uncle — it  shames  my 
heart  to  be  one  privy  to  this  thing  which  we  are 
set  upon  to  do.  Here  be  we,  the  greatest  Lords  of 
England,  making  a  cat's-paw  of  this  lad — for  he  is 
only  yet  a  boy — and  of  his  blind  father,  for  to 
achieve  our  ends  against  Alban's  faction.  It  seem- 
eth  not  over -honorable  to  my  mind." 

"Pardon  me,  your  Highness,"  said  Myles,  blush- 
ing to  the  roots  of  his  hair;  "but,  an  I  may  be  so 
bold  as  to  speak,  I  reck  nothing  of  what  your  aims 
may  be;  I  only  look  to  restoring  my  father's  honor 
and  the  honor  of  our  house." 


286 


"Truly,"  said  the  Prince,  smiling,  "that  is  the 
only  matter  that  maketh  me  willing  to  lay  my 
hands  to  this  business.  Dost  thou  know  why  I  have 
sent  for  thee?  It  is  because  this  day  thou  must 
challenge  the  Duke  of  Alban  before  the  King.  The 
Earl  of  Mackworth  has  laid  all  his  plans  and  the 
time  is  now  ripe.  Knowest  that  thy  father  is  at 
Mackworth  House?" 

"Nay,"  said  Myles;  "I  knew  it  not." 

"He  hath  been  there  for  nearly  two  days,"  said 
the  Prince.  "Just  now  the  Earl  hath  sent  for  us  to 
come  first  to  Mackworth  House.  Then  to  go  to  the 
palace,  for  he  hath  gained  audience  with  the  King, 
and  hath  so  arranged  it  that  the  Earl  of  Alban  is  to 
be  there  as  well.  We  all  go  straightway;  so  get 
thyself  ready  as  soon  as  may  be." 

Perhaps  Myles's  heart  began  beating  more 
quickly  within  him  at  the  nearness  of  that  great 
happening  which  he  had  looked  forward  to  for  so 
long.  If  it  did,  he  made  no  sign  of  his  emotion,  but 
only  asked,  "How  must  I  clothe  myself,  your 
Highness?" 

"Wear  thy  light  armor,"  said  the  Prince,  "but 
no  helmet,  a  juppon  bearing  the  arms  and  colors 
that  the  Earl  gave  thee  when  thou  wert  knighted, 
and  carry  thy  right-hand  gauntlet  under  thy  belt 
for  thy  challenge.  Now  make  haste,  for  time 
passes." 

287 


CHAPTER  30 


m 


DjoiNiNG  THE  ancicnt  palace  of  Westminster, 
where  King  Henry  IV  was  then  holding  his  court, 
was  a  no  less  ancient  stone  building  known  as  the 
Painted  Room.  Upon  the  walls  were  depicted  a 
series  of  battle  scenes  in  long  bands  reaching 
around  this  room,  one  above  another.  Some  of 
these  pictures  had  been  painted  as  far  back  as  the 
days  of  Henry  III,  others  had  been  added  since  his 
time.  They  chronicled  the  various  wars  of  the 
King  of  England,  and  it  was  from  them  that  the 
little  hall  took  its  name  of  the  Painted  Room. 

This  ancient  wing,  or  offshoot,  of  the  main 
buildings  was  more  retired  from  the  hurly-burly  of 
outer  life  than  other  parts  of  the  palace,  and 
thither  the  sick  King  was  very  fond  of  retiring 
from  the  business  of  State,  which  ever  rested  more 


288 


and  more  heavily  upon  his  shoulders,  sometimes 
to  squander  in  quietness  a  spare  hour  or  two; 
sometimes  to  idle  over  a  favorite  book;  sometimes 
to  play  a  game  of  chess  with  a  favorite  courtier. 
The  cold  painted  walls  had  been  hung  with  tap- 
estry, and  its  floor  had  been  spread  with  arras  car- 
pet. These  and  the  cushioned  couches  and  chairs 
that  stood  around  gave  its  gloomy  antiquity  an  air 
of  comfort — an  air  even  of  luxury. 

It  was  to  this  favorite  retreat  of  the  King's  that 
Myles  was  brought  that  morning  with  his  father  to 
face  the  great  Earl  of  Alban. 

In  the  anteroom  the  little  party  of  Princes  and 
nobles  who  escorted  the  father  and  son  had  held  a 
brief  consultation.  Then  the  others  had  entered, 
leaving  Myles  and  his  blind  father  in  charge  of 
Lord  Lumley  and  two  knights  of  the  court.  Sir 
Reginald  Hallowell  and  Sir  Piers  Averell. 

Myles,  as  he  stood  patiently  waiting,  with  his 
father's  arm  resting  in  his,  could  hear  the  muffled 
sound  of  voices  from  beyond  the  arras.  Among 
others,  he  recognized  the  well-remembered  tones 
of  the  King.  He  fancied  that  he  heard  his  own 
name  mentioned  more  than  once,  and  then  the 
sound  of  talking  ceased.  The  next  moment  the 
arras  was  drawn  aside,  and  the  Earl  entered  the 
antechamber  again. 

289 


"All  is  ready,  cousin,"  said  he  to  Lord  Falworth, 
in  a  suppressed  voice.  "Essex  hath  done  as  he 
promised,  and  Alban  is  within  there  now."  Then, 
turning  to  Myles,  speaking  in  the  same  low  voice, 
and  betraying  more  agitation  than  Myles  had 
thought  it  possible  for  him  to  show,  "Sir  Myles," 
said  he,  "remember  all  that  hath  been  told  thee. 
Thou  knowest  what  thou  hast  to  say  and  do." 
Then,  without  further  word,  he  took  Lord  Fal- 
worth by  the  hand,  and  led  the  way  into  the  room, 
Myles  following  close  behind. 

The  King  half  sat,  half  inclined,  upon  a  cush- 
ioned seat  close  to  which  stood  the  two  Princes. 
There  were  some  dozen  others  present,  mostly 
priests  and  noblemen  of  high  quality  who  clus- 
tered in  a  group  at  a  little  distance.  Myles  knew 
most  of  them  at  a  glance  having  seen  them  come 
and  go  at  Scotland  Yard.  But  among  them  all,  he 
singled  out  only  one — the  Earl  of  Alban.  He  had 
not  seen  that  face  since  he  was  a  little  child  eight 
years  old,  but  now  that  he  beheld  it  again,  it  fitted 
instantly  and  vividly  into  the  remembrance  of  the 
time  of  that  terrible  scene  at  Falworth  Castle, 
when  he  had  beheld  the  then  Lord  Brookhurst 
standing  above  the  dead  body  of  Sir  John  Dale, 
with  the  bloody  mace  clinched  in  his  hand.  There 
were  the  same  heavy  black   brows,   sinister  and 

290 


gloomy,  the  same  hooked  nose,  the  same  swarthy 
cheeks.  He  even  remembered  the  deep  dent  in  the 
forehead,  where  the  brows  met  in  perpetual 
frown.  So  it  was  that  upon  that  face  his  looks  cen- 
tred and  rested. 

The  Earl  of  Alban  had  just  been  speaking  to 
some  Lord  who  stood  beside  him,  and  a  half-smile 
still  hung  about  the  corners  of  his  lips.  At  first,  as 
he  looked  up  at  the  entrance  of  the  newcomers, 
there  was  no  other  expression;  then  suddenly  came 
a  flash  of  recognition,  a  look  of  wide-eyed  amaze- 
ment; then  the  blood  left  the  cheeks  and  the  lips, 
and  the  face  grew  very  pale.  No  doubt  he  saw  at  a 
flash  that  some  great  danger  overhung  him  in  this 
sudden  coming  of  his  old  enemy,  for  he  was  as 
keen  and  as  astute  a  politician  as  he  was  a  famous 
warrior.  At  least  he  knew  that  the  eyes  of  most  of 
those  present  were  fixed  keenly  and  searchingly 
upon  him.  After  the  first  start  of  recognition,  his 
left  hand,  hanging  at  his  side,  gradually  closed 
around  the  scabbard  of  his  sword,  clutching  it  in  a 
vice-like  grip. 

Meantime  the  Earl  of  Mackworth  had  led  the 
blind  Lord  to  the  King,  where  both  kneeled. 

"Why,  how  now,  my  Lord?"  said  the  King. 
"Methought  it  was  our  young  Paladin  whom  we 
knighted  at  Devlen  that  was  to  be  presented,  and 

291 


here  thou  bringest  this  old  man.  A  blind  man,  ha! 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

"Majesty,"  said  the  Earl,  "I  have  taken  this 
chance  to  bring  to  thy  merciful  consideration  one 
who  hath  most  wofully  and  unjustly  suffered  from 
thine  anger.  Yonder  stands  the  young  knight  of 
whom  we  spake;  this  is  his  father,  Gilbert  Regi- 
nald, whilom  Lord  Falworth.  who  craves  mercy 
and  justice  at  thy  hands." 

"Falworth,"  said  the  King,  placing  his  hand  to 
his  head.  "The  name  is  not  strange  to  mine  ears, 
but  I  cannot  place  it.  My  head  hath  troubled  me 
sorely  to-day,  and  I  cannot  remember." 

At  this  point  the  Earl  of  Alban  came  quietly  and 
deliberately  forward.  "Sire,"  said  he,  "pardon  my 
boldness  in  so  venturing  to  address  you,  but  haply 
I  may  bring  the  name  more  clearly  to  your  mind. 
He  is,  as  my  Lord  of  Mackworth  said,  the  whilom 
Baron  Falworth,  the  outlawed,  attainted  traitor; 
so  declared  for  the  harboring  of  Sir  John  Dale, 
who  was  one  of  those  who  sought  your  Majesty's 
life  at  Windsor  eleven  years  ago.  Sire,  he  is  mine 
enemy  as  well,  and  is  brought  hither  by  my  pro- 
claimed enemies.  Should  aught  occur  to  my  harm, 
I  rest  my  case  in  your  gracious  hands." 

The  dusty  red  flamed  into  the  King's  pale,  sickly 
face  in  answer,  and  he  rose  hastily  from  his  seat. 

292 


"Aye,"  said  he,  "I  remember  me  now — I  remem- 
ber me  the  man  and  the  name!  Who  hath  dared 
bring  him  here  before  us?"  All  the  dull  heaviness 
of  sickness  was  gone  for  the  moment,  and  King 
Henry  was  the  King  Henry  of  ten  years  ago  as  he 
rolled  his  eyes  balefuUy  from  one  to  another  of  the 
courtiers  who  stood  silently  around. 

The  Earl  of  Mackworth  shot  a  covert  glance  at 
the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  who  came  forward  in 
answer. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  he,  "here  am  I,  your 
brother,  who  beseech  you  as  your  brother  not  to 
judge  over-hastily  in  this  matter.  It  is  true  that  this 
man  has  been  adjudged  a  traitor,  but  he  has  been 
so  adjudged  without  a  hearing.  I  beseech  thee  to 
listen  patiently  to  whatsoever  he  may  have  to 
say." 

The  King  fixed  the  Bishop  with  a  look  of  the 
bitterest,  deepest  anger,  holding  his  nether  lip 
tightly  under  his  teeth — a  trick  he  had  when 
strongly  moved  with  anger — and  the  Bishop's  eyes 
fell  under  the  look.  Meantime  the  Earl  of  Alban 
stood  calm  and  silent.  No  doubt  he  saw  that  the 
King's  anger  was  likely  to  befriend  him  more  than 
any  words  that  he  himself  could  say,  and  he 
perilled  his  case  with  no  more  speech  which  could 
only  prove  superfluous. 

293 


At  last  the  King  turned  a  face  red  and  swollen 
with  anger  to  the  blind  Lord,  who  still  kneeled 
before  him. 

"What  hast  thou  to  say?"  he  said,  in  a  deep  and 
sullen  voice. 

"Gracious  and  merciful  Lord,"  said  the  blind 
nobleman,  "I  come  to  thee,  the  fountain-head  of 
justice,  craving  justice.  Sire,  I  do  now  and  here 
deny  my  treason,  which  denial  I  could  not  before 
make,  being  blind  and  helpless,  and  mine  enemies 
strong  and  malignant.  But  now,  sire.  Heaven  hath 
sent  me  help,  and  therefore  I  do  acclaim  before 
thee  that  my  accuser,  William  Bushy  Brookhurst, 
Earl  of  Alban,  is  a  foul  and  an  attainted  liar  in  all 
that  he  hath  accused  me  of.  To  uphold  which  al- 
legation, and  to  defend  me,  who  am  blinded  by  his 
unknightliness,  I  do  offer  a  champion  to  prove  all 
that  I  say  with  his  body  in  combat." 

The  Earl  of  Mackworth  darted  a  quick  look  at 
Myles,  who  came  forward  the  moment  his  father 
had  ended,  and  kneeled  beside  him.  The  King 
offered  no  interruption  to  his  speech,  but  he  bent  a 
look  heavy  with  anger  upon  the  young  man. 

"My  gracious  Lord  and  King,"  said  Myles,  "I, 
the  son  of  the  accused,  do  offer  myself  as  his 
champion  in  this  cause,  beseeching  thee  of  thy 
grace    leave    to    prove    the    truth    of    the    same, 

294 


being  a  belted  knight  by  thy  grace  and  of  thy 
creation  and  the  peer  of  any  who  weareth  spurs." 
Thereupon,  rising,  he  drew  his  iron  gauntlet  from 
his  girdle,  and  flung  it  clashing  down  upon  the 
floor,  and  with  his  heart  swelling  within  him  with 
anger  and  indignation  and  pity  of  his  blind  father, 
he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice,  "I  do  accuse  thee,  Wil- 
liam of  Alban,  that  thou  liest  vilely  as  aforesaid, 
and  here  cast  down  my  gage,  daring  thee  to  take  it 
up." 

The  Earl  of  Alban  made  as  though  he  would 
accept  the  challenge,  but  the  King  stopped  him 
hastily. 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  harshly.  "Touch  not  the  gage! 
Let  it  lie — let  it  lie,  I  tell  thee,  my  Lord!  Now 
then,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  others,  "tell  me  what 
meaneth  all  this  coil?  Who  brought  this  man 
hither?" 

He  looked  from  one  to  another  of  those  who 
stood  silently  around,  but  no  one  answered. 

"I  see,"  said  he,  "ye  all  have  had  to  do  with  it.  It 
is  as  my  Lord  of  Alban  sayeth;  ye  are  his  enemies, 
and  ye  are  my  enemies  as  well.  In  this  I  do  smell 
a  vile  plot.  I  cannot  undo  what  I  have  done,  and 
since  I  have  made  this  young  man  a  knight  with 
mine  own  hands,  I  cannot  deny  that  he  is  fit  to 
challenge  my  Lord  of  Alban.  Ne'theless,  the  High 

295 


Court  of  Chivalry  shall  adjudge  this  case.  Mean- 
time," said  he,  turning  to  the  Earl  Marshal,  who 
was  present,  "I  give  thee  this  attainted  Lord  in 
charge.  Convey  him  presently  to  the  Tower,  and 
let  him  abide  our  pleasure  there.  Also,  thou  mayst 
take  up  yon  gage,  and  keep  it  till  it  is  redeemed 
according  to  our  pleasure." 

He  stood  thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  and  then 
raising  his  eyes,  looked  fixedly  at  the  Earl  of 
Mackworth.  "I  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  be  a  right 
sick  man,  and  there  be  some  who  are  already  plot- 
ting to  overthrow  those  who  have  held  up  my 
hand  with  their  own  strength  for  all  these  years." 
Then  speaking  more  directly:  "My  Lord  Earl  of 
Mackworth,  I  see  your  hand  in  this  before  all  oth- 
ers. It  was  thou  who  so  played  upon  me  as  to  get 
me  to  knight  this  young  man,  and  thus  make  him 
worthy  to  challenge  my  Lord  of  Alban.  It  was  thy 
doings  that  brought  him  here  to-day,  backed  by 
mine  own  sons  and  my  brother  and  by  these 
noblemen."  Then  turning  suddenly  to  the  Earl  of 
Alban:  "Come,  my  Lord,"  said  he;  "I  am  aweary 
with  all  this  coil.  Lend  me  thine  arm  to  leave  this 
place."  So  it  was  that  he  left  the  room,  leaning 
upon  the  Earl  of  Alban's  arm,  and  followed  by  the 
two  or  three  of  the  Alban  faction  ^vho  were 
present. 

296 


"Your  Royal  Highness,"  said  the  Earl  Marshal, 
"I  must  e'en  do  the  King's  bidding,  and  take  this 
gentleman  into  arrest." 

"Do  thy  duty,"  said  the  Prince.  "We  knew  it 
must  come  to  this.  Meanwhile  he  is  to  be  a  pris- 
oner of  honor,  and  see  that  he  be  well  lodged  and 
cared  for.  Thou  wilt  find  my  barge  at  the  stairs  to 
convey  him  down  the  river,  and  I  myself  will  come 
this  afternoon  to  visit  him." 


297 


CHAPTER  31 


t 


T  WAS  not  until  the  end  of  July  that  the  High 
Court  of  Chivalry  rendered  its  judgment.  There 
were  many  unusual  points  in  the  case,  some  of 
which  bore  heavily  against  Lord  Falworth,  some 
of  which  were  in  his  favor.  He  was  very  ably  de- 
fended by  the  lawyers  whom  the  Earl  of  Mack- 
worth  had  engaged  upon  his  side;  nevertheless, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  the  judgment,  no 
doubt,  would  have  been  quickly  rendered  against 
him.  As  it  was,  however,  the  circumstances  were 
not  ordinary,  and  it  was  rendered  in  his  favor.  The 
Court  besought  the  King  to  grant  the  ordeal  by 
battle,  to  accept  Lord  Falworth's  champion,  and 
to  appoint  the  time  and  place  for  the  meeting. 

The  decision  must  have  been  a  most  bitter, 
galling  one  for  the  sick  King.  He  was  naturally  of 

298 


a  generous,  forgiving  nature,  but  Lord  Falworth  in 
his  time  of  power  had  been  an  unrelenting  and 
fearless  opponent,  and  his  Majesty  who,  like  most 
generous  men,  could  on  occasions  be  very  cruel 
and  intolerant,  had  never  forgiven  him.  He  had 
steadily  thrown  the  might  of  his  influence  with  the 
Court  against  the  Falworths'  case,  but  that  influ- 
ence was  no  longer  all-powerful  for  good  or  ill.  He 
was  failing  in  health,  and  it  could  only  be  a  matter 
of  a  few  years,  probably  of  only  a  few  months, 
before  his  successor  sat  upon  the  throne. 

Upon  the  other  hand,  the  Prince  of  Wales's  fac- 
tion had  been  steadily,  and  of  late  rapidly,  increas- 
ing in  power,  and  in  the  Earl  of  Mackworth,  its 
virtual  head,  it  possessed  one  of  the  most  capable 
politicians  and  astute  intriguers  in  Europe.  So,  as 
the  outcome  of  all  the  plotting  and  counter-plot- 
ting, scheming  and  counter-scheming,  the  case 
was  decided  in  Lord  Falworth's  favor.  The  knowl- 
edge of  the  ultimate  result  was  known  to  the 
Prince  of  Wales's  circle  almost  a  week  before  it 
was  finally  decided.  Indeed,  the  Earl  of  Mack- 
worth  had  made  pretty  sure  of  that  result  before 
he  had  summoned  Myles  from  France,  but  upon 
the  King  it  fell  like  the  shock  of  a  sudden  blow.  All 
that  day  he  kept  himself  in  moody  seclusion,  nurs- 
ing his  silent,  bitter  anger,  and  making  only  one 

299 


outbreak,  in  which  he  swore  by  the  Holy  Rood 
that  should  Myles  be  worsted  in  the  encounter,  he 
would  not  take  the  battle  into  his  own  hands,  but 
would  suffer  him  to  be  slain,  and  furthermore,  that 
should  the  Earl  show  signs  of  failing  at  any  time, 
he  would  do  all  in  his  power  to  save  him.  One  of 
the  courtiers  who  had  been  present,  and  who  was 
secretly  inclined  to  the  Prince  of  Wales's  faction, 
had  repeated  this  speech  at  Scotland  Yard,  and  the 
Prince  had  said,  "That  meaneth,  Myles,  that  thou 
must  either  win  or  die." 

"And  so  I  would  have  it  to  be,  my  Lord,"  Myles 
had  answered. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  a  fortnight  after  the  deci- 
sion of  the  Court  of  Chivalry  had  been  rendered 
that  the  King  announced  the  time  and  place  of 
battle — the  time  to  be  the  3d  of  September,  the 
place  to  be  Smithfield — a  spot  much  used  for  such 
encounters. 

During  the  three  weeks  or  so  that  intervened 
between  this  announcement  and  the  time  of  com- 
bat, Myles  went  nearly  every  day  to  visit  the  lists 
in  course  of  erection.  Often  the  Prince  went  with 
him;  always  two  or  three  of  his  friends  of  the  Scot- 
land Yard  court  accompanied  him. 

The  lists  were  laid  out  in  the  usual  form.  The 
true  or  principal  list  in  which  the  combatants  were 

300 


to  engage  was  sixty  yards  long  and  forty  yards 
wide;  this  rectangular  space  being  surrounded  by 
a  fence  about  six  feet  high,  painted  vermilion.  Be- 
tween the  fence  and  the  stand  where  the  King  and 
the  spectators  sat,  and  surrounding  the  central 
space,  was  the  outer  or  false  list,  also  surrounded 
by  a  fence.  In  the  false  list  the  Constable  and  the 
Marshal  and  their  followers  and  attendants  were  to 
be  stationed  at  the  time  of  battle  to  preserve  the 
general  peace  during  the  contest  between  the 
principals. 

One  day  as  Myles,  his  princely  patron,  and  his 
friends  entered  the  barriers,  leaving  their  horses  at 
the  outer  gate,  they  met  the  Earl  of  Alban  and  his 
followers,  who  were  just  quitting  the  lists,  which 
they  also  were  in  the  habit  of  visiting  nearly  every 
day.  As  the  two  parties  passed  one  another,  the 
Earl  spoke  to  a  gentleman  walking  beside  him  and 
in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  clearly  overheard  by 
the  others:  "Yonder  is  the  young  sprig  of  Fal- 
worth,"  said  he.  "His  father,  my  Lords,  is  not  con- 
tent with  forfeiting  his  own  life  for  his  treason, 
but  must,  forsooth,  throw  away  his  son's  also.  I 
have  faced  and  overthrown  many  a  better  knight 
than  that  boy." 

Myles  heard  the  speech,  and  knew  that  it  was 
intended  for  him  to  hear  it;  but  he  paid  no  atten- 

301 


tion  to  it,  walking  composedly  at  the  Prince's  side. 
The  Prince  had  also  overheard  it,  and  after  a  little 
space  of  silence  asked,  "Dost  thou  not  feel  anxiety 
for  thy  coming  battle,  Myles?" 

"Yea,  my  Lord,"  said  Myles;  "sometimes  I  do 
feel  anxiety,  but  not  such  as  my  Lord  of  Alban 
would  have  me  feel  in  uttering  the  speech  that  he 
spake  anon.  It  is  anxiety  for  my  father's  sake  and 
my  mother's  sake  that  I  feel,  for  truly  there  are 
great  matters  for  them  pending  upon  this  fight. 
Ne'theless,  I  do  know  that  God  will  not  desert  me 
in  my  cause,  for  verily  my  father  is  no  traitor." 

"But  the  Earl  of  Alban,"  said  the  Prince, 
gravely,  "is  reputed  one  of  the  best-skilled  knights 
in  all  England;  moreover,  he  is  merciless  and  with- 
out generosity,  so  that  an  he  gain  aught  advantage 
over  thee,  he  will  surely  slay  thee." 

"I  am  not  afraid,  my  Lord,"  said  Myles,  still 
calmly  and  composedly. 

"Nor  am  I  afraid  for  thee,  Myles,"  said  the 
Prince,  heartily,  putting  his  arm,  as  he  spoke, 
around  the  young  man's  shoulder;  "for  truly,  wert 
thou  a  knight  of  forty  years,  instead  of  one  of 
twenty,  thou  couldst  not  bear  thyself  with  more 
courage." 

As  the  time  for  the  duel  approached,  the  days 
seemed  to  drag  themselves  along  upon  leaden  feet; 

302 


nevertheless,  the  days  came  and  went,  as  all  days 
do,  bringing  with  them,  at  last,  the  fateful  3d  of 
September. 

Early  in  the  morning,  while  the  sun  was  still 
level  and  red,  the  Prince  himself,  unattended, 
came  to  Myles's  apartment,  in  the  outer  room  of 
which  Gascoyne  was  bustling  busily  about  arrang- 
ing the  armor  piece  by  piece;  renewing  straps  and 
thongs,  but  not  whistling  over  his  work  as  he  usu- 
ally did.  The  Prince  nodded  to  him,  and  then 
passed  silently  through  to  the  inner  chamber. 
Myles  was  upon  his  knees,  and  Father  Ambrose, 
the  Prince's  chaplain,  was  beside  him.  The  Prince 
stood  silently  at  the  door,  until  Myles,  having  told 
his  last  bead,  rose  and  turned  towards  him. 

"My  dear  Lord,"  said  the  young  knight,  "I  give 
you  gramercy  for  the  great  honor  you  do  me  in 
coming  so  early  for  to  visit  me." 

"Nay,  Myles,  give  me  no  thanks,"  said  the 
Prince,  frankly  reaching  him  his  hand,  which 
Myles  took  and  set  to  his  lips.  "I  lay  bethinking  me 
of  thee  this  morning,  while  yet  in  bed,  and  so,  as 
I  could  not  sleep  any  more,  I  was  moved  to  come 
hither  to  see  thee." 

Quite  a  number  of  the  Prince's  faction  were  at 
the  breakfast  at  Scotland  Yard  that  morning; 
among  others,  the  Earl  of  Mackworth.  All  were 

303 


more  or  less  oppressed  with  anxiety,  for  nearly  all 
of  them  had  staked  much  upon  the  coming  battle. 
If  Alban  conquered,  he  would  be  more  powerful 
to  harm  them  and  to  revenge  himself  upon  them 
than  ever,  and  Myles  was  a  very  young  champion 
upon  whom  to  depend.  Myles  himself,  perhaps, 
showed  as  little  anxiety  as  any;  he  certainly  ate 
more  heartily  of  his  breakfast  that  morning  than 
many  of  the  others. 

After  the  meal  was  ended,  the  Prince  rose. 
"The  boat  is  ready  at  the  stairs,"  said  he;  "if  thou 
wouldst  go  to  the  Tower  to  visit  thy  father,  Myles, 
before  hearing  mass,  I  and  Cholmondeley  and 
Vere  and  Poins  will  go  with  thee,  if  ye,  Lords  and 
gentlemen,  will  grant  me  your  pardon  for  leaving 
you.  Are  there  any  others  that  thou  wouldst  have 
accompany  thee?" 

"I  would  have  Sir  James  Lee  and  my  squire. 
Master  Gascoyne,  if  thou  art  so  pleased  to  give 
them  leave  to  go,"  answered  Myles. 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  Prince.  "We  will  stop  at 
Mackworth  stairs  for  the  knight." 

The  barge  landed  at  the  west  stairs  of  the 
Tower  wharf,  and  the  whole  party  were  received 
with  more  than  usual  civilities  by  the  Governor, 
who  conducted  them  at  once  to  the  Tower  where 
Lord  Falworth  was  lodged.   Lady  Falworth  met 

304 


them  at  the  head  of  the  stairs;  her  eyes  were  very 
red  and  her  face  pale,  and  as  Myles  raised  her 
hand  and  set  a  long  kiss  upon  it,  her  lips  trembled, 
and  she  turned  her  face  quickly  away,  pressing 
her  handkerchief  for  one  moment  to  her  eyes.  Poor 
lady!  What  agony  of  anxiety  and  dread  did  she  not 
suffer  for  her  boy's  sake  that  day!  Myles  had  not 
hidden  both  from  her  and  his  father  that  he  must 
either  win  or  die. 

As  Myles  turned  from  his  mother.  Prior  Edward 
came  out  from  the  inner  chamber,  and  was 
greeted  warmly  by  him.  The  old  priest  had  arrived 
in  London  only  the  day  before,  having  come  down 
from  Crosbey  Priory  to  be  with  his  friend's  family 
during  this  their  time  of  terrible  anxiety. 

After  a  little  while  of  general  talk,  the  Prince 
and  his  attendants  retired,  leaving  the  family  to- 
gether, only  Sir  James  Lee  and  Gascoyne  remain- 
ing behind. 

Many  matters  that  had  been  discussed  before 
were  now  finally  settled,  the  chief  of  which  was 
the  disposition  of  Lady  Falworth  in  case  the  battle 
should  go  against  them.  Then  Myles  took  his 
leave,  kissing  his  mother,  who  began  crying,  and 
comforting  her  with  brave  assurances.  Prior  Ed- 
ward accompanied  him  as  far  as  the  head  of  the 
Tower  stairs,  where  Myles  kneeled  upon  the  stone 

305 


steps,  while  the  good  priest  blessed  him  and 
signed  the  cross  upon  his  forehead.  The  Prince 
was  waiting  in  the  walled  garden  adjoining,  and  as 
they  rowed  back  again  up  the  river  to  Scotland 
Yard,  all  were  thoughtful  and  serious,  even  Poins' 
and  Vere's  merry  tongues  being  stilled  from  their 
usual  quips  and  jesting. 

It  was  about  the  quarter  of  the  hour  before 
eleven  o'clock  when  Myles,  with  Gascoyne,  set 
forth  for  the  lists.  The  Prince  of  Wales,  together 
with  most  of  his  court,  had  already  gone  on  to 
Smithfield,  leaving  behind  him  six  young  knights 
of  his  household  to  act  as  escort  to  the  young 
champion.  Then  at  last  the  order  to  horse  was 
given;  the  great  gate  swung  open,  and  out  they 
rode,  clattering  and  jingling,  the  sunlight  gleam- 
ing and  flaming  and  flashing  upon  their  polished 
armor.  They  drew  rein  to  the  right,  and  so  rode  in 
a  little  cloud  of  dust  along  the  Strand  Street  to- 
wards London  town,  with  the  breeze  blowing 
merrily,  and  the  sunlight  shining  as  sweetly  and 
blithesomely  as  though  they  were  riding  to  a  wed- 
ding rather  than  to  a  grim  and  dreadful  ordeal 
that  meant  either  victory  or  death. 


306 


CHAPTER  32 


H 


N  THE  days  of  King  Edward  III  a  code  of  laws 
relating  to  trial  by  battle  had  been  compiled  for 
one  of  his  sons,  Thomas  of  Woodstock.  In  this 
work  each  and  every  detail,  to  the  most  minute, 
had  been  arranged  and  fixed,  and  from  that  time 
judicial  combats  had  been  regulated  in  accor- 
dance with  its  mandates. 

It  was  in  obedience  to  this  code  that  Myles 
Falworth  appeared  at  the  east  gate  of  the  lists 
(the  east  gate  being  assigned  by  law  to  the  chal- 
lenger), clad  in  full  armor  of  proof,  attended  by 
Gascoyne,  and  accompanied  by  two  of  the  young 
knights  who  had  acted  as  his  escort  from  Scotland 
Yard. 

At  the  barriers  he  was  met  by  the  attorney  Wil- 
lingwood,   the  chief  lawyer  who  had  conducted 

307 


the  Falworth  case  before  the  High  Court  of  Chiv- 
alry, and  who  was  to  attend  him  during  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  oaths  before  the  King. 

As  Myles  presented  himself  at  the  gate  he  was 
met  by  the  Constable,  the  Marshal,  and  their  im- 
mediate attendants.  The  Constable,  laying  his 
hand  upon  the  bridle-rein,  said,  in  a  loud  voice: 
"Stand,  Sir  Knight,  and  tell  me  why  thou  art  come 
thus  armed  to  the  gates  of  the  lists.  What  is  thy 
name?  Wherefore  art  thou  come?" 

Myles  answered,  "I  am  Myles  Falworth,  a 
Knight  of  the  Bath  by  grace  of  his  Majesty  King 
Henry  IV  and  by  his  creation,  and  do  come  hither 
to  defend  my  challenge  upon  the  body  of  William 
Bushy  Brookhurst.  Earl  of  Alban,  proclaiming  him 
an  unknightly  knight  and  a  false  and  perjured  liar, 
in  that  he  hath  accused  Gilbert  Reginald,  Lord 
Falworth,  of  treason  against  our  beloved  Lord,  his 
Majesty  the  King,  and  may  God  defend  the  right!" 

As  he  ended  speaking,  the  Constable  advanced 
close  to  his  side,  and  formally  raising  the  umbril  of 
the  helmet,  looked  him  in  the  face.  Thereupon, 
having  approved  his  identity,  he  ordered  the  gates 
to  be  opened,  and  bade  Myles  enter  the  lists  with 
his  squire  and  his  friends. 

At  the  south  side  of  the  lists  a  raised  scaffolding 
had  been  built  for  the  King  and  those  who  looked 


308 


<3 


on.  It  was  not  unlike  that  which  had  been  erected 
at  Devlen  Castle  when  Myles  had  first  jousted  as 
belted  knight — here  were  the  same  raised  seat  for 
the  King,  the  tapestries,  the  hangings,  the  flutter- 
ing pennons,  and  the  royal  standard  floating 
above;  only  here  were  no  fair-faced  ladies  looking 
down  upon  him,  but  instead,  stern-browed  Lords 
and  knights  in  armor  and  squires,  and  here  were 
no  merry  laughing  and  buzz  of  talk  and  flutter  of 
fans  and  kerchiefs,  but  all  was  very  quiet  and  seri- 
ous. 

Myles  riding  upon  his  horse,  with  Gascoyne 
holding  the  bridle-rein,  and  his  attorney  walking 
beside  him  with  his  hand  upon  the  stirrups,  fol- 
lowed the  Constable  across  the  lists  to  an  open 
space  in  front  of  the  seat  where  the  King  sat. 
Then,  having  reached  his  appointed  station,  he 
stopped,  and  the  Constable,  advancing  to  the  foot 
of  the  stair-way  that  led  to  the  dais  above,  an- 
nounced in  a  loud  voice  that  the  challenger  had 
entered  the  lists. 

"Then  called  the  defendant  straightway,"  said 
the  King,  "for  noon  draweth  nigh." 

The  day  was  very  warm,  and  the  sun,  bright  and 
unclouded,  shone  fiercely  down  upon  the  open 
lists.  Perhaps  few  men  nowadays  could  bear  the 
scorching  heat  of  iron  plates  such  as  Myles  wore, 

309 


from  which  the  body  was  only  protected  by  a 
leathern  jacket  and  hose.  But  men's  bodies  in 
those  days  were  tougher  and  more  seasoned  to 
hardships  of  weather  than  they  are  in  these  our 
times.  Myles  thought  no  more  of  the  burning  iron 
plates  that  incased  him  than  a  modern  soldier 
thinks  of  his  dress  uniform  in  warm  weather.  Nev- 
ertheless, he  raised  the  umbril  of  his  helmet  to 
cool  his  face  as  he  waited  the  coming  of  his  op- 
ponent. He  turned  his  eyes  upward  to  the  row  of 
seats  on  the  scaffolding  above,  and  even  in  the 
restless,  bewildering  multitude  of  strange  faces 
turned  towards  him  recognized  those  that  he 
knew:  the  Prince  of  Wales,  his  companions  of  the 
Scotland  Yard  household,  the  Duke  of  Clarence, 
the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  and  some  of  the  noble- 
men of  the  Earl  of  Mackworth's  party,  who  had 
been  buzzing  about  the  Prince  for  the  past  month 
or  so.  But  his  glance  swept  over  all  these,  rather 
perceiving  than  seeing  them,  and  then  rested  upon 
a  square  box-like  compartment  not  unlike  a  prison- 
er's dock  in  the  courtroom  of  our  day,  for  in  the 
box  sat  his  father,  with  the  Earl  of  Mackworth 
upon  one  side  and  Sir  James  Lee  upon  the  other. 
The  blind  man's  face  was  very  pale,  but  still  wore 
its  usual  expression  of  calm  serenity — the  calm 
serenity  of  a  blind  face.  The  Earl  was  also  very 
pale,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  upon 


310 


Myles  with  a  keen  and  searching  look,  as  though 
to  pierce  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  young  man's 
heart,  and  discover  if  indeed  not  one  little  frag- 
ment of  dryrot  of  fear  or  uncertainty  tainted  the 
solid  courage  of  his  knighthood. 

Then  he  heard  the  criers  calling  the  defendant 
at  the  four  corners  of  the  list:  "Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez! 
William  Bushy  Brookhurst,  Earl  of  Alban,  come  to 
this  combat,  in  which  you  be  enterprised  this  day 
to  discharge  your  sureties  before  the  King,  the 
Constable,  and  the  Marshal,  and  to  encounter  in 
your  defence  Myles  Falworth,  knight,  the  ac- 
cepted champion  upon  behalf  of  Gilbert  Reginald 
Falworth,  the  challenger!  Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!  Let 
the  defendant  come!" 

So  they  continued  calling,  until,  by  the  sudden 
turning  of  all  faces,  Myles  knew  that  his  enemy 
was  at  hand. 

Then  presently  he  saw  the  Earl  and  his  at- 
tendants enter  the  outer  gate  at  the  west  end  of 
the  barrier;  he  saw  the  Constable  and  Marshal 
meet  him;  he  saw  the  formal  words  of  greeting 
pass;  he  saw  the  Constable  raise  the  umbril  of  the 
helmet.  Then  the  gate  opened,  and  the  Earl  of 
Alban  entered,  clad  cap-a-pie  in  a  full  suit  of  mag- 
nificent Milan  armor  without  juppon  or  adorn- 
ment of  any  kind.  As  he  approached  across  the 
lists,  Myles  closed  the  umbril  of  his  helmet,  and 

311 


then  sat  quite  still  and  motionless,  for  the  time 
was  come. 

So  he  sat,  erect  and  motionless  as  a  statue  of 
iron,  half  hearing  the  reading  of  the  long  intri- 
cately-worded bills,  absorbed  in  many  thoughts  of 
past  and  present  things.  At  last  the  reading  ended, 
and  then  he  calmly  and  composedly  obeyed, 
under  the  direction  of  his  attorney,  the  several 
forms  and  ceremonies  that  followed;  answered  the 
various  official  questions,  took  the  various  oaths. 
Then  Gascoyne,  leading  the  horse  by  the  bridle- 
rein,  conducted  him  back  to  his  station  at  the  east 
end  of  the  lists. 

As  the  faithful  friend  and  squire  made  one  last 
and  searching  examination  of  arms  and  armor,  the 
Marshal  and  the  clerk  came  to  the  young  cham- 
pion and  administered  the  final  oath  by  which  he 
swore  that  he  carried  no  concealed  weapons. 

The  weapons  allowed  by  the  High  Court  were 
then  measured  and  attested.  They  consisted  of  the 
long  sword,  the  short  sword,  the  dagger,  the  mace, 
and  a  weapon  known  as  the  hand-gisarm,  or  glave- 
lot — a  heavy  swordlike  blade  eight  palms  long,  a 
palm  in  breadth,  and  riveted  to  a  stout  handle  of 
wood  three  feet  long. 

The  usual  lance  had  not  been  included  in  the 
list  of  arms,  the  hand-gisarm  being  substituted  in 
its  place.  It  was  a  fearful  and  murderous  weapon, 

312 


though  cumbersome,  unhandy,  and  ill  adapted  for 
quick  or  dexterous  stroke;  nevertheless,  the  Earl  of 
Alban  had  petitioned  the  King  to  have  it  included 
in  the  list,  and  in  answer  to  the  King's  expressed 
desire  the  Court  had  adopted  it  in  the  stead  of  the 
lance,  yielding  thus  much  to  the  royal  wishes.  Nor 
was  it  a  small  concession.  The  hand-gisarm  had 
been  a  weapon  very  much  in  vogue  in  King  Rich- 
ard's day,  and  was  now  nearly  if  not  entirely  oiu  of 
fashion  with  the  younger  generation  of  warriors. 
The  Earl  of  Alban  was,  of  course,  well  used  to  the 
blade;  with  Myles  it  was  strange  and  new,  either 
for  attack  or  in  defence. 

With  the  administration  of  the  final  oath  and 
the  examination  of  the  weapons,  the  preliminary 
ceremonies  came  to  an  end,  and  presently  Myles 
heard  the  criers  calling  to  clear  the  lists.  As  those 
around  him  moved  to  withdraw,  the  young  knight 
drew  off  his  mailed  gauntlet,  and  gave  Gascoyne's 
hand  one  last  final  clasp,  strong,  earnest,  and  in- 
tense with  the  close  friendship  of  young  manhood, 
and  poor  Gascoyne  looked  up  at  him  with  a  face 
ghastly  white. 

Then  all  were  gone;  the  gates  of  the  principal 
list  and  that  of  the  false  list  were  closed  clashing, 
and  Myles  was  alone,  face  to  face,  with  his  mortal 
enemy. 


313 


CHAPTER  33 


xr, 


HERE  WAS  a  little  while  of  restless,  rustling 
silence,  during  which  the  Constable  took  his  place 
in  the  seat  appointed  for  him  directly  in  front  of 
and  below  the  King's  throne.  A  moment  or  two 
when  even  the  restlessness  and  the  rustling  were 
quieted,  and  then  the  King  leaned  forward  and 
spoke  to  the  Constable,  who  immediately  called 
out,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice. 

"Let  them  go!"  Then  again,  "Let  them  go!" 
Then,  for  the  third  and  last  time,  "Let  them  go 
and  do  their  endeavor,  in  God's  name!" 

At  this  third  command  the  combatants,  each  of 
whom  had  till  that  moment  been  sitting  as  motion- 
less as  a  statue  of  iron,  tightened  rein,  and  rode 
slowly  and  deliberately  forward  without  haste,  yet 
without  hesitation,  until  they  met  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  lists. 


314 


In  the  battle  which  followed,  Myles  fought  with 
the  long  sword,  the  Earl  with  the  hand-gisarm  for 
which  he  had  asked.  The  moment  they  met,  the 
combat  was  opened,  and  for  a  time  nothing  was 
heard  but  the  thunderous  clashing  and  clamor  of 
blows,  now  and  then  beating  intermittently, 
now  and  then  pausing.  Occasionally,  as  the 
combatants  spurred  together,  checked,  wheeled, 
and  recovered,  they  would  be  hidden  for  a  mo- 
ment in  a  misty  veil  of  dust,  which,  again  drifting 
down  the  wind,  perhaps  revealed  them  drawn  a 
little  apart,  resting  their  panting  horses.  Then, 
again,  they  would  spur  together,  striking  as  they 
passed,  wheeling  and  striking  again. 

Upon  the  scaffolding  all  was  still,  only  now  and 
then  for  the  buzz  of  muffled  exclamations  or  ap- 
plause of  those  who  looked  on.  Mostly  the  ap- 
plause was  from  Myles's  friends,  for  from  the  very 
first  he  showed  and  steadily  maintained  his  advan- 
tage over  the  older  man.  "Hah!  well  struck!  well 
recovered!"  "Look  ye!  the  sword  bit  that  time!" 
"Nay,  look,  saw  ye  him  pass  the  point  of  the 
gisarm?"  Then,  "Falworth!  Falworth!"  as  some 
more  than  usually  skilful  stroke  or  parry  occurred. 

Meantime  Myles's  father  sat  straining  his  sight- 
less eyeballs,  as  though  to  pierce  his  body's  dark- 
ness with  one  ray  of  light  that  would  show  him 
how  his  boy  held  his  own  in  the  fight,  and  Lord 

315 


Mackworth,  leaning  with  his  lips  close  to  the  blind 
man's  ear,  told  him  point  by  point  how  the  battle 
stood. 

"Fear  not,  Gilbert,"  said  he  at  each  pause  in  the 
fight.  "He  holdeth  his  own  right  well."  Then,  after 
a  while:  "God  is  with  us,  Gilbert.  Alban  is  twice 
wounded  and  his  horse  faileth.  One  little  while 
longer  and  the  victory  is  ours!" 

A  longer  and  more  continuous  interval  of  com- 
bat followed  this  last  assurance,  during  which 
Myles  drove  the  assault  fiercely  and  unrelentingly 
as  though  to  overbear  his  enemy  by  the  very 
power  and  violence  of  the  blows  he  delivered.  The 
Earl  defended  himself  desperately,  but  was  borne 
back,  back,  back,  farther  and  farther.  Every  nerve 
of  those  who  looked  on  was  stretched  to  breathless 
tensity,  when,  almost  as  his  enemy  was  against  the 
barriers,  Myles  paused  and  rested. 

"Out  upon  it!"  exclaimed  the  Earl  of  Mack- 
worth,  almost  shrilly  in  his  excitement,  as  the  sud- 
den lull  followed  the  crashing  of  blows.  "Why 
doth  the  boy  spare  him?  That  is  thrice  he  hath 
given  him  grace  to  recover;  an  he  had  pushed  the 
battle  that  time  he  had  driven  him  back  against 
the  barriers." 

It  was  as  the  Earl  had  said;  Myles  had  three 
times  given  his  enemy  grace  when  victory  was  al- 

316 


most  in  his  very  grasp.  He  had  three  times  spared 
him,  in  spite  of  all  he  and  those  dear  to  him  must 
suffer  should  his  cruel  and  merciless  enemy  gain 
the  victory.  It  was  a  false  and  foolish  generosity, 
partly  the  fault  of  his  impulsive  youth — more 
largely  of  his  romantic  training  in  the  artificial 
code  of  French  chivalry.  He  felt  that  the  battle 
was  his,  and  so  he  gave  his  enemy  these  three 
chances  to  recover,  as  some  chevalier  or  knight- 
errant  of  romance  might  have  done,  instead  of 
pushing  the  combat  to  a  mercifully  speedy  end — 
and  his  foolish  generosity  cost  him  dear. 

In  the  momentary  pause  that  had  thus  stirred 
the  Earl  of  Mackworth  to  a  sudden  outbreak,  the 
Earl  of  Alban  sat  upon  his  panting,  sweating  war- 
horse,  facing  his  powerful  young  enemy  at  about 
twelve  paces  distant.  He  sat  as  still  as  a  rock,  hold- 
ing his  gisarm  poised  in  front  of  him.  He  had,  as 
the  Earl  of  Mackworth  had  said,  been  wounded 
twice,  and  each  time  with  the  point  of  the  sword, 
so  much  more  dangerous  than  a  direct  cut  with 
the  weapon.  One  wound  was  beneath  his  armor, 
and  no  one  but  he  knew  how  serious  it  might  be; 
the  other  was  under  the  overlapping  of  the  epau- 
liere,  and  from  it  a  finger's-breadth  of  blood  ran 
straight  down  his  side  and  over  the  housings  of  his 
horse.  From  without,  the  still  motionless  iron  fig- 

317 


ure  appeared  calm  and  expressionless;  within,  who 
knows  what  consuming  blasts  of  hate,  rage,  and 
despair  swept  his  heart  as  with  a  fiery  whirlwind. 

As  Myles  looked  at  the  motionless,  bleeding  fig- 
ure, his  breast  swelled  with  pity.  "My  Lord,"  said 
he,  "thou  art  sore  wounded  and  the  fight  is  against 
thee;  wilt  thou  not  yield  thee?" 

No  one  but  that  other  heard  the  sp>eech,  and  no 
one  but  Myles  heard  the  answer  that  came  back, 
hollow,  cavernous,  "Never,  thou  dog!  Never!" 

Then  in  an  instant,  as  quick  as  a  flash,  his  enemy 
spurred  straight  upon  Myles,  and  as  he  spurred  he 
struck  a  last  desperate,  swinging  blow,  in  which 
he  threw  in  one  final  effort  all  the  strength  of  hate, 
of  fury,  and  of  despair.  Myles  whirled  his  horse 
backward,  warding  the  blow  with  his  shield  as  he 
did  so.  The  blade  glanced  from  the  smooth  face  of 
the  shield,  and,  whether  by  mistake  or  not,  fell 
straight  and  true,  and  with  almost  undiminished 
force,  upon  the  neck  of  Myles's  war-horse,  and  just 
behind  the  ears.  The  animal  staggered  forward, 
and  then  fell  upon  its  knees,  and  at  the  same  in- 
stant the  other,  as  though  by  the  impetus  of  the 
rush,  dashed  full  upon  it  with  all  the  momentum 
lent  by  the  weight  of  iron  it  carried.  The  shock 
was  irresistible,  and  the  stunned  and  wounded 
horse  was  flung  upon  the  ground,  rolling  over  and 

318 


over.  As  his  horse  fell,  Myles  wrenched  one  of  his 
feet  out  of  the  stirrup;  the  other  caught  for  an 
instant,  and  he  was  flung  headlong  with  stunning 
violence,  his  armor  crashing  as  he  fell.  In  the 
cloud  of  dust  that  arose  no  one  could  see  just  what 
happened,  but  that  what  was  done  was  done  de- 
liberately no  one  doubted.  The  earl,  at  once  check- 
ing and  spurring  his  foaming  charger,  drove  the 
iron-shod  war-horse  directly  over  Myles's  pros- 
trate body.  Then,  checking  him  fiercely  with  the 
curb,  reined  him  back,  the  hoofs  clashing  and 
crashing,  over  the  figure  beneath.  So  he  had  rid- 
den over  the  father  at  York,  and  so  he  rode  over 
the  son  at  Smithfield. 

Myles,  as  he  lay  prostrate  and  half  stunned  by 
his  fall,  had  seen  his  enemy  thus  driving  his  rear- 
ing horse  down  upon  him,  but  was  not  able  to 
defend  himself.  A  fallen  knight  in  full  armor  was 
utterly  powerless  to  rise  without  assistance;  Myles 
lay  helpless  in  the  clutch  of  the  very  iron  that  was 
his  defence.  He  closed  his  eyes  involuntarily,  and 
then  horse  and  rider  were  upon  him.  There  was  a 
deafening,  sparkling  crash,  a  glimmering  faintness, 
then  another  crash  as  the  horse  was  reined  furi- 
ously back  again,  and  then  a  humming  stillness. 

In  a  moment,  upon  the  scaffolding  all  was  a 
tumult  of  uproar  and  confusion,   shouting  and 

319 


gesticulation;  only  the  King  sat  calm,  sullen,  im- 
passive. The  Earl  wheeled  his  horse  and  sat  for  a 
moment  or  two  as  though  to  make  quite  sure  that 
he  knew  the  King's  mind.  The  blow  that  had 
been  given  was  foul,  unknightly,  but  the  King 
gave  no  sign  either  of  acquiescence  or  rebuke;  he 
had  willed  that  Myles  was  to  die. 

Then  the  Earl  turned  again,  and  rode  deliber- 
ately up  to  his  prostrate  enemy. 

When  Myles  opened  his  eyes  after  that  moment 
of  stunning  silence,  it  was  to  see  the  other  looming 
above  him  on  his  war-horse,  swinging  his  gisarm 
for  one  last  mortal  blow — pitiless,  merciless. 

The  sight  of  that  looming  peril  brought  back 
Myles's  wandering  senses  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
He  flung  up  his  shield,  and  met  the  blow  even  as  it 
descended,  turning  it  aside.  It  only  protracted  the 
end. 

Once  more  the  Earl  of  Alban  raised  the  gisarm, 
swinging  it  twice  around  his  head  before  he 
struck.  This  time,  though  the  shield  glanced  it,  the 
blow  fell  upon  the  shoulder-piece,  biting  through 
the  steel  plate  and  leathern  jack  beneath  even  to 
the  bone.  Then  Myles  covered  his  head  with  his 
shield  as  a  last  protecting  chance  for  life. 

For  the  third  time  the  Earl  swung  the  blade 
flashing,  and  then  it  fell,  straight  and  true,  upon 

320 


the  defenceless  body,  just  below  the  left  arm,  bit- 
ing deep  through  the  armor  plates.  For  an  instant 
the  blade  stuck  fast,  and  that  instant  was  Myles's 
salvation.  Under  the  agony  of  the  blow  he  gave  a 
muffled  cry,  and  almost  instinctively  grasped  the 
shaft  of  the  weapon  with  both  hands.  Had  the 
Earl  let  go  his  end  of  the  weapon,  he  would  have 
won  the  battle  at  his  leisure  and  most  easily;  as  it 
was,  he  struggled  violently  to  wrench  the  gisarm 
away  from  Myles.  In  that  short,  fierce  struggle 
Myles  was  dragged  to  his  knees,  and  then,  still 
holding  the  weapon  with  one  hand,  he  clutched 
the  trappings  of  the  Earl's  horse  with  the  other. 
The  next  moment  he  was  upon  his  feet.  The  other 
struggled  to  thrust  him  away,  but  Myles,  letting 
go  the  gisarm,  which  he  held  with  his  left  hand, 
clutched  him  tightly  by  the  sword-belt  in  the  in- 
tense, vise-like  grip  of  despair.  In  vain  the  Earl 
strove  to  beat  him  loose  with  the  shaft  of  the 
gisarm,  in  vain  he  spurred  and  reared  his  horse 
to  shake  him  off;  Myles  held  him  tight,  in  spite  of 
all  his  struggles. 

He  felt  neither  the  streaming  blood  nor  the 
throbbing  agony  of  his  wounds;  every  faculty  of 
soul,  mind,  body,  every  power  of  life,  was  cen- 
tered in  one  intense,  burning  effort.  He  neither 
felt,  thought,  nor  reasoned,  but  clutching,  with  the 

321 


blindness  of  instinct,  the  heavy,  spiked,  iron- 
headed  mace  that  hung  at  the  Earl's  saddle-bow, 
he  gave  it  one  tremendous  wrench  that  snapped 
the  plaited  leathern  thongs  that  held  it  as  though 
they  were  skeins  of  thread.  Then,  grinding  his 
teeth  as  with  a  spasm,  he  struck  as  he  had  never 
struck  before — once,  twice,  thrice  full  upon  the 
front  of  the  helmet.  Crash!  crash!  And  then,  even 
as  the  Earl  toppled  sidelong,  crash!  And  the  iron 
plates  split  and  crackled  under  the  third  blow. 
Myles  had  one  flashing  glimpse  of  an  awful  face, 
and  then  the  saddle  was  empty. 

Then,  as  he  held  tight  to  the  horse,  panting, 
dizzy,  sick  to  death,  he  felt  the  hot  blood  gushing 
from  his  side,  filling  his  body  armor,  and  staining 
the  ground  upon  which  he  stood.  Still  he  held 
tightly  to  the  saddle-bow  of  the  fallen  man's  horse 
until,  through  his  glimmering  sight,  he  saw  the 
Marshal,  the  Lieutenant,  and  the  attendants 
gather  around  him.  He  heard  the  Marshal  ask  him, 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  faint  and  distant,  if  he  was 
dangerously  wounded.  He  did  not  answer,  and  one 
of  the  attendants,  leaping  from  his  horse,  opened 
the  umbril  of  his  helmet,  disclosing  the  dull,  hol- 
low eyes,  the  ashy,  colorless  lips,  and  the  waxy 
forehead,  upon  which  stood  great  beads  of  sweat. 

"Water!  water!"  he  cried,  hoarsely;  "give  me  to 


322 


TK 


He  held  tightly  to  the  fallen  man's  horse. 


drink!"  Then,  quitting  his  hold  upon  the  horse,  he 
started  blindly  across  the  lists  towards  the  gate  of 
the  barrier.  A  shadow  that  chilled  his  heart 
seemed  to  fall  upon  him.  "It  is  death,"  he  mut- 
tered; then  he  stopped,  then  swayed  for  an  instant, 
and  then  toppled  headlong,  crashing  as  he  fell. 


323 


CONCLUSION 

JDuT  MYLEs  was  not  dead.  Those  who  had  seen 
his  face  when  the  umbril  of  the  helmet  was  raised, 
and  then  saw  him  fall  as  he  tottered  across  the 
lists,  had  at  first  thought  so.  But  his  faintness  was 
more  from  loss  of  blood  and  the  sudden  unstring- 
ing of  nerve  and  sense  from  the  intense  furious 
strain  of  the  last  few  moments  of  battle  than  from 
the  vital  nature  of  the  wound.  Indeed,  after  Myles 
had  been  carried  out  of  the  lists  and  laid  upon  the 
ground  in  the  shade  between  the  barriers,  Master 
Thomas,  the  Prince's  barber-surgeon,  having  ex- 
amined the  wounds,  declared  that  he  might  be 
even  carried  on  a  covered  litter  to  Scotland  Yard 
without  serious  danger.  The  Prince  was  extremely 
desirous  of  having  him  under  his  care,  and  so  the 
venture  was  tried.  Myles  was  carried  to  Scotland 

324 


Yard,  and  perhaps  was  none  the  worse  therefore. 

The  Prince,  the  Earl  of  Mackworth,  and  two  or 
three  others  stood  silently  watching  as  the  worthy 
shaver  and  leecher,  assisted  by  his  apprentice  and 
Gascoyne,  washed  and  bathed  the  great  gaping 
wound  in  the  side,  and  bound  it  with  linen  band- 
ages. Myles  lay  with  closed  eyelids,  still,  pallid, 
weak  as  a  little  child.  Presently  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  turned  them,  dull  and  languid,  to  the  Prince. 

"What  hath  happed  my  father,  my  Lord?"  said 
he,  in  a  faint,  whispering  voice. 

"Thou  hath  saved  his  life  and  honor,  Myles," 
the  Prince  answered.  "He  is  here  now,  and  thy 
mother  hath  been  sent  for,  and  cometh  anon  with 
the  priest  who  was  with  them  this  morn." 

Myles  dropped  his  eyelids  again;  his  lips  moved, 
but  he  made  no  sound,  and  then  two  bright  tears 
trickled  across  his  white  cheek. 

"He  maketh  a  woman  of  me,"  the  Prince  mut- 
tered through  his  teeth,  and  then,  swinging  on  his 
heel,  he  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out  of  the 
window  into  the  garden  beneath. 

"May  I  see  my  father?"  said  Myles,  presently, 
without  opening  his  eyes. 

The  Prince  turned  around  and  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  the  surgeon. 

The  good  man  shook  his  head.  "Not  to-day," 

325 


said  he;  "haply  to-morrow  he  may  see  him  and  his 
mother.  The  bleeding  is  but  new  stanched,  and 
such  matters  as  seeing  his  father  and  mother  may 
make  the  heart  to  swell,  and  so  maybe  the  wound 
burst  afresh  and  he  die.  An  he  would  hope  to  live, 
he  must  rest  quiet  until  to-morrow  day." 

But  though  Myles's  wound  was  not  mortal,  it 
was  very  serious.  The  fever  which  followed  lin- 
gered longer  than  common — perhaps  because  of 
the  hot  weather — and  the  days  stretched  to  weeks, 
and  the  weeks  to  months,  and  still  he  lay  there, 
nursed  by  his  mother  and  Gascoyne  and  Prior 
Edward,  and  now  and  again  by  Sir  James  Lee. 

One  day,  a  little  before  the  good  priest  returned 
to  Saint  Mary's  Priory,  as  he  sat  by  Myles's  bed- 
side, his  hands  folded,  and  his  sight  turned  in- 
ward, the  young  man  suddenly  said,  "Tell  me, 
holy  father,  is  it  always  wrong  for  man  to  slay 
man?" 

The  good  priest  sat  silent  for  so  long  a  time  that 
Myles  began  to  think  he  had  not  heard  the  ques- 
tion. But  by-and-by  he  answered,  almost  with  a 
sigh,  "It  is  a  hard  question,  my  son,  but  I  must  in 
truth  say,  meseems  it  is  not  always  wrong." 

"Sir,"  said  Myles,  "I  have  been  in  battle  when 
men  were  slain,  but  never  did  I  think  thereon  as  I 
have  upon  this  matter.  Did  I  sin  in  so  slaying  my 
father's  enemy?" 

326 


"Nay,"  said  Prior  Edward,  quietly,  "thou  didst 
not  sin.  It  was  for  others  thou  didst  fight,  my  son, 
and  for  others  it  is  pardonable  to  do  battle.  Had  it 
been  thine  own  quarrel,  it  might  haply  have  been 
more  hard  to  have  answered  thee." 

Who  can  gainsay,  even  in  these  days  of  light, 
the  truth  of  this  that  the  good  priest  said  to  the 
sick  lad  so  far  away  in  the  past? 

One  day  the  Earl  of  Mackworth  came  to  visit 
Myles.  At  that  time  the  young  knight  was  mend- 
ing, and  was  sitting  propped  up  with  pillows,  and 
was  wrapped  in  Sir  James  Lee's  cloak,  for  the  day 
was  chilly.  After  a  little  time  of  talk,  a  pause  of 
silence  fell. 

"My  Lord,"  said  Myles,  suddenly,  "dost  thou 
remember  one  part  of  a  matter  we  spoke  of  when  I 
first  came  from  France?" 

The  Earl  made  no  pretence  of  ignorance.  "I  re- 
member," said  he,  quietly,  looking  straight  into 
the  young  man's  thin  white  face. 

"And  have  I  yet  won  the  right  to  ask  for  the 
Lady  Alice  de  Mowbray  to  wife?"  said  Myles,  the 
red  rising  faintly  to  his  cheeks. 

"Thou  hast  won  it,"  said  the  Earl,  with  a  smile. 

Myles's  eyes  shone  and  his  lips  trembled  with 
the  pang  of  sudden  joy  and  triumph,  for  he  was 
still  very  weak.   "My  Lord,"  said  he,  presently, 

327 


"belike  thou  earnest  here  to  see  me  for  this  very 
matter?" 

The  Earl  smiled  again  without  answering,  and 
Myles  knew  that  he  had  guessed  aright.  He  reached 
out  one  of  his  weak,  pallid  hands  from  beneath  the 
cloak.  The  Earl  of  Mackworth  took  it  with  a  firm 
pressure,  then  instantly  quitting  it  again,  rose,  as  if 
ashamed  of  his  emotion,  stamped  his  feet,  as 
though  in  pretence  of  being  chilled,  and  then 
crossed  the  room  to  where  the  fire  crackled 
brightly  in  the  great  stone  fireplace. 

Little  else  remains  to  be  told;  only  a  few  loose 
strands  to  tie,  and  the  story  is  complete. 

Though  Lord  Falworth  was  saved  from  death  at 
the  block,  though  his  honor  was  cleansed  from 
stain,  he  was  yet  as  poor  and  needy  as  ever.  The 
King,  in  spite  of  all  the  pressure  brought  to  bear 
upon  him,  refused  to  restore  the  estates  of  Fal- 
worth and  Easterbridge — the  latter  of  which  had 
again  reverted  to  the  crown  upon  the  death  of  the 
Earl  of  Alban  without  issue — upon  the  grounds 
that  they  had  been  forfeited  not  because  of  the 
attaint  of  treason,  biu  because  of  Lord  Falworth 
having  refused  to  respond  to  the  citation  of  the 
courts.  So  the  business  dragged  along  for  month 
after  month,  until  in  January  the  King  died  sud- 
denly in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber  at  Westminster. 

328 


Then  matters  went  smoothly  enough,  and  Fal- 
worth  and  Mackworth  swam  upon  the  flood-tide 
of  fortune. 

So  Myles  was  married,  for  how  else  should  the 
story  end?  And  one  day  he  brought  his  beautiful 
young  wife  home  to  Falworth  Castle,  which  his 
father  had  given  him  for  his  own,  and  at  the  gate- 
way of  which  he  was  met  by  Sir  James  Lee  and  by 
the  newly-knighted  Sir  Francis  Gascoyne. 

One  day,  soon  after  this  home-coming,  as  he 
stood  with  her  at  an  open  window  into  which 
came  blowing  the  pleasant  May-time  breeze,  he 
suddenly  said,  "What  didst  thou  think  of  me  when 
I  first  fell  almost  into  thy  lap,  like  an  apple  from 
heaven?" 

"I  thought  thou  wert  a  great,  good-hearted  boy, 
as  I  think  thou  art  now,"  said  she,  twisting  his 
strong,  sinewy  fingers  in  and  out. 

"If  thou  thoughtst  me  so  then,  what  a  very  fool  I 
must  have  looked  to  thee  when  I  so  clumsily  be- 
sought thee  for  thy  favor  for  my  jousting  at 
Devlen.  Did  I  not  so?" 

"Thou  didst  look  to  me  the  most  noble,  hand- 
some young  knight  that  did  ever  live;  thou  didst 
look  to  me  Sir  Galahad,  as  they  did  call  thee, 
withouten  taint  or  stain." 

Myles  did  not  even  smile  in  answer,  but  looked 

329 


at  his  wife  with  such  a  look  that  she  blushed  a 
rosy  red.  Then,  laughing,  she  slipped  from  his 
hold,  and  before  he  could  catch  her  again  was 
gone. 

I  am  glad  that  he  was  to  be  rich  and  happy  and 
honored  and  beloved  after  all  his  hard  and  noble 
fighting. 


330 


Format  by  Gloria  Bressler 

Set  in  12  pt.  Baskerville 

Composed,  printed  and  bound  by  The  Haddon  Craftsmen,  Inc. 

Harper  &  Row,  Publishers,  Incorporated 


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